•NRLF 


IP 


FOREST  FLOWERS, 


ANNA    S.     RICKEY, 

Daughter  of  the  late  RANDALL  H.  RICKEY,  was  born  in  Phila 
delphia,  December  23d,  1827, — Married,  in  Cincinnati, 
to  SOLOMON  W.  ROBERTS,  Civil  Engineer,  January  16th, 
1851— and  Died  in  Philadelphia,  August  10th,  1858,  in 
the  31st  year  of  her  age;  and  was  buried  at  Woodlands 
Cemetery,  on  the  evening  of  the  12th  of  August. 

She  left  an  infant  son,  born  two  days  before  her  death, 
which  died  soon  after,  at  the  age  of  five  weeks.  Three  of 
her  children,  one  son  and  two  daughters,  are  still  living. 

The  loss  of  an  infant  daughter,  "ELIZABETH  WHITE 
ROBERTS,"  which  died  in  1855,  made  a  deep  and  perma 
nent  impression  upon  her  mind ;  and  she  soon  after  became 
a  communicant  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church. 

After  her  death,  the  following  Poem,  believed  to  be  her 
last,  was  found  in  her  memorandum  book,  addressed  to  the 
daguerreotype  of  her  deceased  daughter. 


THE     LITTLE     SHADOW. 

BY     ANNA     R.     ROBERTS. 

Oh !  little  shadow  of  the  face 

That  I  shall  never  see  again ; 
Oh!  fair  round  arms,  whose  soft  embrace 

My  neck  yearns  for  in  vain. 
Oh  1  deep  black  eyes,  whose  wells  of  light, 

Death's  icy  hand  on  earth  has  sealed; 
Oh!  budding  mouth,  whose  music  might 

Not  be  to  us  revealed. 

Oh!   lovely  babe,  thou  hadst  from  birth, 

A  dower  of  beauty  and  of  love  ; 
Thou  filled'st  thy  mission  here  on  earth, 

And  drew  our  hearts  above. 
And  when  thy  semblance  beams  on  me, 

At  morn,  or  noon,  or  thoughtful  even, 
My  soul  goes  up  to  seek  for  thee. 

My  angel  child  in  Heaven. 

1858. 


//.     , 


i  ©  K  E  Y. 


]  LA  f)  E  IPH  I  A 


r,  UXBiAT  AMB 


FOREST  FLOWERS 


THE  WEST. 


BY 


ANNA     S.    RICKEY. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

LINDSAY  AND   BLAKISTON. 
1851. 


fcfc 

K" 
" 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850, 

BY  LINDSAY  &  BLAKISTON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of 
Pennsylvania. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
C.   SHERMAN,   PRINTER. 


Contents. 


PAGE 

THE  OLD  MANSION,  -                 -                 -                 -           13 

HAWTHORN  COTTAGE,    -  -20 

GERALDINE,  -                 -                 -27 

FOUND  TOO  LATE,             -  29 

THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER,    -  32 

LA  BELLE  RIVIERE,        -  34 

I  THINK  OP  THEE,  -  37 

THE  LONE  GRAVE,            -  39 

STANZAS,    -  42 

PARTED  SUMMER,             -  44 

THE  RUIN,  -                 -                 -                             46 

THE  FALLEN,   -  48 

TIME'S  CHANGES,  -  50 

WILT  THOU  THINK  OF  ME,  -                                                      52 

THE  WATCHER,         -  -           54 

THE  OCEAN  DEAD,           -  -                 -                 -                 -                    56 


M1890I8 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  POET'S  DREAM, 
THE  DYING  MISSIONARY, 

TO ,  -  -       63 

I  PRAY  WE  MAY  NOT  MEET  AGAIN, 

MY  FOREST  HOME, 

HAVE  YOU  FORGOTTEN, 

THE  INDIAN'S  LAMENT,       -  -        71 

TO  A  FRIEND  AT  PARTING, 

THE  HEAVENLY  VISITANT,  ~  ^6 

7Q 
THE  "WATER-LILY, 

o-i 

THE  DEAD  RIVAL,  - 

DO 

THOU  WILT  REMEMBER  ME, 

A  THOUGHT,  **7 

THE  OLD  ELM, 

qq 
THE  DOMINIE, 

THE  NIGHT-BLOOMING  CEREUS, 

OQ 
TWO  PORTRAITS,      - 

STANZAS,  102 

THE  DREAMER, 

THE  UNSEALED  FOUNTAIN, 

DREAMS  OF  THE  PAST, 

1  1  Q 

A  SIMILE, 

•I  -1  K 

THE  FALL  OF  THE  OAK, 

118 

THE  AWAKENED  HEART, 


CONTENTS.  xi 

PAGE 

TEARS,    -                      -  120 

LORELY,             -  _              123 

A  VISION,  -  .   125 

OLDEN  HAUNTS,       -  131 

THE  TRULY  DEAD,        -       -       -  -       -   134 

THE  POST-MAN,       -       -       -  .       _       135 


FOREST    FLOWERS. 


Oblft  Mansion. 


'Tis  an  old  mansion,  time-worn,  quaint,  and  gray, 

Half  hidden  by  the  tall,  luxuriant  trees, 
Spreading  a  leafy  veil  o'er  its  decay, 
Assisted  by  the  clinging  vines,  that  sway 

With  their  bright  blossoms  in  the  gentle  breeze, 
With  a  soft,  murmuring  sound,  a  plaintive  wail, 
For  the  bright  form  whose  brow  grew  cold  and  pale, 
When  those  aged  trees  were  young,  and  that  old 
mansion  gay. 

And  music  once  resounded  through  the  hall, 
And  woman's  voice  rose  sweetly  on  the  air, 
2 


14  FOREST    FLOWERS. 

In  the  clear  tones  of  a  light  heart ;  grief's  thrall 
Had  never  bound  her,  nor  its  shadowy  pall 

Darkened  her  young  brow,  innocent  and  fair  ; 
But,  like  a  budding  flower,  that  to  the  light 
Opens  its  young  leaves,  beautiful  and  bright, 
She  grew  to  womanhood,  the  loveliest  blossom  there. 

A  wild  flower  hidden  in  her  bright  retreat, 

With  a  warm,  buoyant  heart  and  sunny  brow, 
There  was  joy  even  in  her  dancing  feet, 
That  bounded  o'er  the  dewy  lawn  to  meet 

Aught  that  she  loved ;  but  still  and  silent  now 
Is  all  around ;  the  strain  so  sweetly  ringing 
Through  the  old  woods,   mocking  the   wild  birds 

singing, 
Echoes  no  more — that  voice  was  hushed  long  years 


For  sorrow's  blight  came  there ;  the  serpent's  trace 

Swept  o'er  the  bloom  of  that  fair  Eden  ;  never 
May  we  avert  the  doom  of  our  fallen  race, 
Nor  hope  for  perfect  happiness,  nor  place 


THE    OLD    MANSION.  15 

A  chain  to  bind  joy  to  the  heart  for  ever: 
Grief  shades  the  sunny  smile  and  dims  the  eye, 
As  tempest  clouds  sweep  o'er  the  summer  sky, — 
One  stroke,  alas !  the  links  of  that  frail  chain  can 
sever. 

Arid  Ellen  loved — ah  !  in  that  little  word 

How  much  of  joy  and  sorrow  can  be  ours  ! 
Upon  its  shrine  how  many  a  heart  has  poured 
Its  lavish  tenderness,  and  the  rich  hoard 

Of  the  soul's  aspirations,  hopes  and  powers, 
That  withered  on  the  altar  with  the  heart 
That  offered  them,  leaving  the  rankling  dart 
Of  blighted  love  and  hope   to  poison  life's  long 
hours. 

And  Ellen  loved,  and  life  to  her  was  dear, 

And  earth  seemed  an  Elysium ;  love  became 
A  part  of  her  existence ;  no  dark  fear 
Mingled  with  her  bright  dreams;   no  doubt  came 
near 


16  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

Her  guiltless  heart  to  sully  its  pure  flame. 
Oh,  had  that  heart  in  its  full  bliss  grown  chill, 
Nor  wakened  to  a  sense  of  wrong  and  ill, 
That  bitter  grief  that  makes  earth's  pilgrimage  so 
drear ! 

Summer  had  come  with  all  its  wealth  of  flowers, 

And  the  old  woods  were  vocal  with  the  song 
Of  many  a  wild-bird  ;  in  their  leafy  bowers 
She  dreamed  away  the  long,  bright  summer  hours, 
And  the  soft,  perfumed  breeze  that  swept  along 
Through  the  scarce  stirring  branches,  seemed  to  be 
Whispering  his  name  in  its  faint  minstrelsy, 
And  bright  hopes  filled  her  heart  that  trembled 
with  their  throng. 

But  time  sped  on,  and  autumn's  chilly  breath 
Scattered  the  forest  leaves ;  the  early  frost 

Made  the  frail  flowers  droop  ;  the  verdant  heath 

Put  on  a  robe  of  russet ;  the  bright  wreath 
Fell  from  the  brow  of  summer ;  the  woods  lost 

The  insect's  hum,  the  wild-bird's  tuneful  art ; 


THE   OLD    MANSION.  17 

But  sadder  far,  the  young  and  gentle  heart 
That  would   have   grieved   for   all — that   autumn 
blighted  most. 

It  brought  a  tale  of  faithlessness  that  crushed 

Her  gentle,  trusting  heart  beneath  its  power  ; 
And    though    her    grief    within    her    heart    was 

hushed, 
The  rose  of  health  no  more  her  soft  cheek  flushed, 

She  slowly  withered  like  a  stricken  flower, 
The  smile  that  lit  her  lovely  face  soon  fled, 
And  slow  and  heavy  grew  her  lightsome  tread, 
And  never  more  her  song  was  heard  in  hall  or 
bower. 

Spring  came  again,  but  brought  no  joy  to  her  ; 

Its  life  and  beauty  seemed  a  mockery 
Of  her  deep  grief.     Like  a  strange  wanderer, 
She  roamed  through  many  a  well-known  spot :  the 

stir 

And  gaiety  of  life  fell  mournfully 
Upon  her  heart :  she  faded  day  by  day ; 
2* 


18  FOREST    FLOWERS. 

Her  soul  was  passing  fast  from  earth  away, 
And  ere  the  summer  came,  she  slumbered  peace 
fully. 

Within  a  shady  glen,  remote  and  wild, 

Her  shadowy  fingers  clasped  as  if  in  prayer, 
They  found  her  sleeping  like  a  weary  child : 
Her  life  closed  gently,  for  her  pale  lips  smiled — 

Death  could  not  rudely  smite  a  form  so  fair  ! 
She  was  the  light  of  the  old  hall,  the  pride 
Of  her  aged  father's  heart,  and  when  she  died 
A  change  came  o'er  the  place — it  missed  her  gentle 
care. 

No  fairy  hand  now  trained  the  clambering  vine, 

Or  gathered  up  the  roses  that  would  bend 
Their  branches  o'er  the  path ;  the  sweet  woodbine 
Drooped,  and  around  the  casement  ceased  to  twine  : 
There  was  no  hand  its  flowery  wreaths  to  tend ; 
The  jessamine  trailed  its  fragrant  boughs  among 
The  grass  that  grew  luxuriant  and  long, 
And  flowers  with  weeds  began  for  empire  to  contend. 


THE    OLD    MANSION.  19 

Ah !  never  from  that  gray  old  mansion  will 

Her  voice  float  upward  on  the  summer  air  ! 
There  is  a  gentle  sadness  that  would  fill 
The  heart  in  gazing  on  it,  lone  and  still : 

No  bounding  footstep  wakes  an  echo  there ; 
And  Time  has  left  of  her  one  only  trace, 
The  half-worn  marble  o'er  her  resting-place, 
And  that  faint  record  soon  his  hand  will  cease  to 
spare. 


20 


lorattjorn  Cnttoge. 


'TwAS  a  lovely  Sabbath  morning, 

In  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 
And  brightest  things  of  earth  and  sky, 

Looked  brighter  for  the  day  ; 
Each  zephyr-shaken  flower 

Flung  its  incense  on  the  air, 
And  the  rustling  of  the  young  leaves 

Seemed  a  softly  murmured  prayer. 

The  sunlight  shed  its  genial  smile, 
On  vale,  and  hill,  and  glen, 

And  like  a  gladdened  heart,  the  earth 
Gave  back  the  smile  again  : 


HAWTHORN   COTTAGE.  21 

A  group  of  snowy  clouds 

Their  rose-tipped  pinions  slowly  spread, 
And  gently  o'er  the  azure  sky, 

Like  angel  hosts  they  sped. 

From  the  little  village  spire, 

Eang  the  holy  Sabbath  bell, 
And  the  clear  air  trembled  with  delight, 

As  it  bore  its  cheerful  swell : 
Half  hidden  by  its  leafy  screen, 

Arose  the  house  of  prayer, 
A  peaceful  haven  for  the  soul 

Storm-tossed  by  sin  and  care. 

Upon  the  lawn  before  the  door, 

Stood  a  rosy  little  crowd, 
With  their  voices  hushed  to  whispers, 

While  their  dimples  laughed  aloud  ; 
For  the  bell  within  the  spire, 

Rang  a  joyous  peal  again, 
And  pressing  down  the  dewy  grass, 

Came  a  little  bridal  train. 


22  FOKEST   FLO  WE  US. 

They  stood  before  the  altar, 

And  the  bridegroom  clasped  with  pride 
The  hand  of  that  fair,  blushing  girl, 

Who  trembled  by  his  side ; 
And  vows  were  faintly  spoken 

From  lips  scarce  seen  to  part, 
But  their  echo  dwelt  for  ever, 

In  each  fond,  trusting  heart. 

Then,  with  a  proud  and  happy  smile, 

The  husband  of  an  hour, 
Led  to  her  sweet  though  humble  home, 

His  lovely  village  flower. 
'Twas  a  pleasant  little  cottage, 

Peeping  from  amid  the  leaves, 
With  the  swallows  twittering  merrily, 

As  they  built  beneath  the  eaves. 

A  hawthorn  grew  beside  the  door, 
With  its  wealth  of  snowy  bloom 

Mingling  its  sweet  and  gentle  breath 
With  the  woodbine's  rich  perfume, 


HAWTHORN    COTTAGE.  23 

Stretching  its  arms  above  the  roof, 

Rose  a  giant  sycamore, 
And  the  vine's  luxuriant  branches 

The  casement  wandered  o'er. 

Spring's  blossoms,  summer's  gorgeous  flowers, 

And  autumn's  withered  leaves, 
All  passed  away ;  the  swallows 

Left  their  nests  beneath  the  eaves ; 
But  the  dwellers  in  the  lowly  cot, 

Had  gathered  in  the  May, 
And  their  hearts  were  full  of  sunshine, 

And  blossoms  strewed  their  way. 

Again  the  hawthorn's  snowy  blooms 

With  perfume  filled  the  air, 
And  a  human  bud  within  the  cot, 

Had  bloomed  as  pure  and  fair, 
And  when  upon  the  Sabbath 

Rang  the  little  village  bell, 
Sparkling  upon  its  stainless  brow 

Baptismal  waters  fell. 


24  FOREST    FLOWERS. 

And  the  pale  but  happy  mother, 

In  silent  rapture  prest, 
Tho'  her  full  heart  thrilled  with  many  a  prayer, 

Her  infant  to  her  breast ; 
And  tho'  her  cheek  had  lost  its  bloom, 

And  her  lip  its  richest  red, 
Maternity's  soft  halo 

Its  radiance  round  her  shed. 

Years  passed — and  childish  voices 

Filled  their  cottage  home  with  glee, 
And  the  mother  at  her  daily  toil, 

Sang  sweetly,  cheerfully ; 
And  the  traveller,  hot  and  dusty, 

To  the  rustic  gate  would  come, 
And  gaze  upon  their  simple  joys, 

And  dream  sweet  dreams  of  home. 

But  the  mother's  step  grew  feeble, 

Her  cheek  grew  thin  and  white, 
And  her  eyes  exchanged  their  mild,  soft  beam, 

For  a  bright  unearthly  light ; 


HAWTHORN   COTTAGE.  25 

And  ere  the  leaves  had  fallen 

From  the  aged  sycamore, 
A  bark  had  crossed  life's  troubled  wave. 

Toward  the  eternal  shore. 

And  one  by  one,  the  children  passed 

From  under  the  roof-tree ; 
Some  sought  the  western  forests, 

And  some  went  o'er  the  sea ; 
And  one  they  called  the  rose-bud, 

The  fairest  and  the  best, 
Shared  with  her  gentle  mother 

The  churchyard's  peaceful  rest. 

You  can  see  no  children  playing 

Around  the  cottage  door, 
And  you  hear  no  sweet  voice  singing 

The  pleasant  songs  of  yore ; — 
But  an  old  man  leans  upon  the  gate, 

His  thin  locks  necked  with  gray, 
That  gleams  like  threads  of  silver, 

In  the  cheerful  light  of  May. 


26 


As  I  gaze  upon  thy  semblance, 
With  thy  dark  eyes  meeting  mine, 

I  forget  the  grave  hath  claimed  thee, 
Noble-hearted  Geraldine. 

There  thou  standest  in  thy  beauty, 
With  thy  ringlets  all  afloat, 

Sweeping  from  thy  snowy  temples, 
Rippling  round  thy  graceful  throat. 

Genius  sits  enthroned,  how  proudly ! 

On  that  regal  brow  of  thine  ; 
But  it  was  a  fatal  dower, 

With  thy  warm  heart,  Geraldine. 


GEKALDINE.  27 

In  those  dark  eyes  beaming  on  me, 
I  have  seen  the  hot  tears  spring, 

When  thy  brain  was  wrought  to  madness, 
And  thy  heart  was  withering. 

There  arose  a  fearful  warfare 

In  that  truthful  breast  of  thine, 
And  thou  diedst  amid  the  struggle, — 

Well  thou  couldst,  poor  Geraldine ! 

I  have  seen  that  soft  cheek  mantle 

With  the  bright  rose  of  decay ; 
Seen  those  lustrous  eyes  grow  brighter, 

Ere  their  glory  passed  away. 

When  thy  marble  form  was  shrouded, 
And  that  mournful  task  was  mine, 

Down  upon  the  coffin  smiling, 
Looked  the  pictured  Geraldine. 

And  its  wild  and  glowing  beauty 
Seemed  to  mock  the  face  below, 


28  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

With  the  eyelids  closed  so  meekly, 
And  the  brow  and  cheek  of  snow. 

There's  a  tablet  of  pale  marble 
Lying  on  thy  throbless  heart ; 

But  I  stand  here  fondly  dreaming 
What  thou  wert,  not  what  thou  art. 

And  I  gaze  upon  thy  semblance, 
Like  a  pilgrim  at  a  shrine ; 

For  I  loved  thee,  oh,  how  dearly ! 
Gentle-hearted  Geraldine. 


29 


tan  late. 


ACROSS  the  desert's  glittering  plain 

An  Arab  urged  his  noble  steed, 
Wild  fever  burned  in  every  vein, 

And  forced  him  to  impetuous  speed ; 
Upon  the  thick  and  stifling  air, 

A  cry  from  out  his  parched  lips  burst, 
"  One  draught" — the  burden  of  his  prayer — 

"  One  draught  to  slake  this  fearful  thirst." 

When  on  him  rose  the  morning  sun, 
The  desert  fountain  near  him  seemed, 

And  now  the  day  was  nearly  done, 
Yet  still  the  faithless  mirage  gleamed, 
3* 


30  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

Still  lured  him  on  with  straining  eyes, 
And  fainting  breath,  and  failing  hand, 

Till,  as  the  stars  began  to  rise, 

His  brow  by  a  soft  breeze  was  fanned, — 

And  like  a  sheet  of  molten  glass, 

He  saw  the  little  streamlet  lie  ; 
He  saw  the  long  and  dewy  grass, 

The  graceful  palm-tree  waving  high ; 
And  gazing  like  one  who  is  freed 

From  some  bewildering,  painful  dream, 
And  feeble  as  a  withered  weed, 

He  cast  himself  beside  the  stream. 

The  precious  boon,  so  long  denied 

To  cheer  his  heart  and  soothe  his  brain, 
Now  poisoned  all  life's  purple  tide, 

And  chilled  the  current  in  each  vein : 
No  draught  of  healing  now  it  gave — 

He  felt  the  sands  of  life  abate : 
His  last  breath  curled  the  tiny  wave 

As  his  lips  faltered — "Found  too  late  !" 


FOUND   TOO    LATE.  31 

Thus,  'mid  life's  glare  and  mockery, 

The  arid  sands  of  care  and  pain, 
Too  late,  too  late  thou  comest  to  me, 

Thou  bright  ideal  of  my  brain  ; 
And  wakened  from  rny  wildering  dream, 

I  dare  not  curse  the  aggressor,  Fate, 
But  drooping  at  Love's  sparkling  stream, 

My  crushed  heart  murmurs,  "  Found  too  late !" 


32 


<Che  Haunts  Chamlm. 

0  O 


THERE  is  a  haunted  chamber, 

In  a  mansion  fair  and  bright, 
From  whose  small,  half-shrouded  casement, 

Streams  a  pale,  sepulchral  light. 

All  about  the  goodly  mansion, 

Wild  birds  warble,  flowers  spring ; 

But  across  that  darkened  threshold 
Passes  no  fair  living  thing. 

In  the  chamber,  one  pale  watcher 

Sits  amid  the  dust  of  years, 
Striving  to  restore  its  splendour 

With  her  thickly  falling  tears. 


THE   HAUNTED    CHAMBER.  33 

And  her  wan  and  shadowy  finger 

Beckons  phantoms  to  the  hall, 
Till  they  throng  the  gloomy  chamber, 

Till  they  crowd  the  dusky  wall. 

Then  she  wanders  chanting  fragments 
Of  old  songs,  that  erst  had  rang 

Through  its  broad  and  vaulted  arches, 
When  fair  Hope,  the  siren,  sang. 

And  she  searches  'mid  the  embers, 
On  the  hearthstone  cold  and  dark, 

But  from  out  the  whitened  ashes 

Gleams  no  faint  and  lingering  spark. 

Watcher,  give  thy  haunt  to  silence, 
Close  the  casement,  shun  the  gloom ; 

All  within  is  desolation, 

All  without  is  life  and  bloom. 

Leave  it  to  the  dust  and  darkness 

That  is  gathering  over  all ; 
Seek  some  fairer,  brighter  dwelling, 

Where  such  shadows  never  fall. 


In  3MU  JUttim. 


BEAUTIFUL  river !  on  thy  placid  stream 

The  Indian's  light  canoe  is  seen  no  more, 
Gliding  as  swiftly  as  a  winged  dream, 

Parting  thy  waters  with  his  flashing  oar : 
The  hills  slow  rising  from  each  wood-fringed  shore, 

Are  mirrored  in  thy  calm,  pellucid  wave, 
Whose  rippling  pours  a  requiem  as  it  rolls, 

In  softened  murmurs,  by  the  humble  grave 
Of  that  brave,  hardy  band  who  sleep  unknown, 
Their  resting-place  unmarked  by  monumental  stone. 

And  they,  the  rangers  of  the  broad  domain, 
Lords  of  the  forest,  hold  no  longer  sway ; 


LA    BELLE    RIVIERE.  35 

Thy  native  children  come  not  back  again, 
All,  all  have  vanished,  like  the  dew,  away ; 

Or,  like  the  summer  leaves  that  I  have  tost 
Upon  thy  sunlit  wave,  a  moment  seen 

Whirling  along  the  current,  and  then  lost, 

Leaving  no  lingering  trace  of  what  hath  been, 

No  mark  to  tell,  upon  life's  ceaseless  river, 

That  they  have  passed  from  its  dark  tide  for  ever. 

Within  thy  noble  forest  now  is  heard 

The  sound  of  ringing  axe:  the  silence  ne'er 
Was  broken,  save  by  the  sweet  wild  bird, 

Or  gentle  footfall  of  the  timid  deer, 
Before  the  bold,  undaunted  pioneer 

Had  sought  the  land  of  promise,  the  Far  West, 
And  made  thy  lonely  shore  his  dwelling-place, 

And  reared  a  home  within  its  fertile  breast, 
And  filled  it  with  the  sounds  of  busy  life, 
With  all  its  cares,  its  pleasures,  and  its  strife. 

Thy  hills  re-echo  to  the  cheerful  sound 

Of  pealing  church-bells,  and  the  merry  hum 


36  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

Of  busy  hands  and  voices  ;   and  around 

Thy  shores  are  gathered  many  who  have  come 

As  wanderers  seeking  for  a  place  of  rest, 
A  peaceful  home  upon  the  fertile  soil, 

Where  labour  is  with  plenty  ever  blessed, 

Where  wealth  awaits  the  hardy  hands  that  toil, 

And  Freedom's  sun  with  soul-inspiring  beam, 

Gilds  the  fair  bosom  of  thy  noble  stream. 


Cjtink  nf 


I  THINK  of  thee  when  the  bright  stars  are  keeping 
Their  vigils  through  the  silent  evening  hour ; 

When  the  sweet  summer  breeze  is  gently  sweeping 
Its  wealth  of  perfume  from  each  closing  flower, 

I  think  of  thee. 

I  think  of  thee  when  rosy  morn  is  flinging 

Her  beaming  smile  o'er  forest,  grove,  and  lawn  ; 

When  from  its  grassy  couch  the  lark  is  springing, 
With  melody  to  greet  the  coming  dawn, 

I  think  of  thee. 

I  think  of  thee  when  hallowed  memories  stealing 
Up  from  their  hidden  cell  with  magic  power, 
4 


38  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

Each  dearly  loved  and  treasured  form  revealing, 
Recalling  many  a  bright  and  happy  hour, 

I  think  of  thee. 

I  think  of  thee  when  gentle  thoughts  are  gushing 
Within  my  heart,  where  Peace,  with  dovelike 

wing, 

Is  brooding  o'er  my  spirit,  gently  hushing 
Each  wayward  thought  and  wild  imagining. 

I  think  of  thee. 


39 


(Smut. 


WHERE  flowers  luxuriant  and  wild 

Look  in  the  blue  and  sunny  wave, 
No  costly  marble  o'er  it  piled, 

There  is  a  solitary  grave. 
Above  the  dwelling  of  the  dead, 

Far  from  the  busy  hum  of  crowds, 
The  forest-monarch  rears  his  head, 

As  if  to  woo  the  snowy  clouds, 
While  at  his  feet  the  rolling  surge 
Pours  forth  a  sweet  and  mournful  dirge. 

And  well  it  may,  for  'neath  the  sod, 
A  fair  and  gentle  being  lies — 


40  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

The  spirit  has  returned  to  God, 

A  lovely  dweller  of  the  skies, 
But  there  her  mouldering  ashes  rest ; 

And  Time's  rude  hand  will  soon  efface 
The  grassy  mound  above  her  breast. 

That  marks  her  lonely  resting-place, 
And  none  will  weep  that  one  so  fair, 
So  loved,  so  mourned,  is  sleeping  there. 

She  hath  a  fitter,  lovelier  tomb, 

Where  Spring's  sweet  flowers  bloom  and  die 
Above  her  head,  than  in  the  gloom 

Of  marble  pageantry  to  lie  ; 
Deep  in  the  solitary  glen, 

With  none  to  list  its  mournful  note, 
The  wild  bird  pours  his  requiem 

Upon  the  gentle  breeze  to  float, 
Till  every  echoing  hill  and  vale 
Is  vocal  with  his  sorrowing  tale. 

The  gentle  dews  of  heaven  will  shed 
Refreshing  tears  upon  her  grave, 


THE    LONE    GRAVE.  41 

To  bid  each  wild  flower  raise  its  head 
And  o'er  her  humble  couch  to  wave. 

And  never  will  her  peaceful  breast 
Feel  aught  again  of  sorrow's  throes ; 

Serene  and  tranquil  is  her  rest, 

In  dreamless  sleep  and  sweet  repose ; — 

This  tear-stained  world  of  pain  and  care 

Was  not  a  home  for  one  so  fair. 


4* 


Itntnnjj. 


As  a  dream  of  the  night, 

As  a  flower  of  the  morning, 
As  a  dew-gem  whose  light 

Is  exhaled  in  the  dawning, 
As  a  star  whose  soft  beam  shuns  the  glare  of  the 

day, 
So  brief  was  our  friendship,  so  lovely  its  stay. 

As  a  wind-harp  when  swept 

By  invisible  fingers, 
Whose  sad  music  slept, 

So  thy  memory  lingers, 
Till  some  fond  recollection,  some   softly  breathed 

word, 
Wakes  the  melody  sweet  oi'  each  slumbering  chord. 


STANZAS.  43 

And  though  friendship's  bright  chains 

Are  in  ruins  around  me, 
Still  the  fragrance  remains 

Of  the  flowers  that  bound  me, 
And  memory's  incense  will  hallow  them  yet, 
Till  the  star  of  existence  for  ever  has  set. 

Though  thy  heart  may  ne'er  swell 

With  one  pang  of  regret, 
And  thou  breathest  farewell 

But  to  part  and  forget ; 
Though  the  dream  of  the  past,  Time  may  never 

restore, 

Yet  the  heart  thou  hast  wakened  will  slumber  no 
more. 


•i-2 


I  tii  nuts. 


As  a  dream  of  the  night, 

As  a  flower  of  the  morning, 
As  a  dew-gem  whose  light 

Is  exhaled  in  the  dawning, 
As  a  star  whose  soft  beam  shuns  the  glare  of  the 

day, 
So  brief  was  our  friendship,  so  lovely  its  stay. 

As  a  wind-harp  when  swept 

By  invisible  fingers, 
Whose  sad  music  slept, 

So  thy  memory  lingers, 
Till  some  fond  recollection,  some   softly  breathed 

word, 
Wakes  the  melody  sweet  oi'  each  slumbering  chord. 


43 


And  though  friendship's  bright  chains 

Arc  in  ruins  around  me, 
Still  the  fragrance  remains 

Of  the  flowers  that  bound  me, 
And  memory's  incense  will  hallow  them  yet, 
Till  the  star  of  existence  for  ever  has  set. 

Though  thy  heart  may  ne'er  swell 

With  one  pang  of  regret, 
And  thou  breathest  farewell 

But  to  part  and  forget ; 
Though  the  dream  of  the  past,  Time  may  never 

restore, 

Yet  the  heart  thou  hast  wakened  will  slumber  no 
more. 


46 


t  luin. 


ABOUND  an  old  tower,  deep-marked  with  decay, 
The  wall-flower  and  ivy  were  twining, 

And  above  the  lone  ruin,  so  time-worn  and  gray, 
The  moon  in  her  beauty  was  shining. 

So  sweetly  she  smiled  from  her  home  far  and  bright, 
On  the  verdure-wreathed  stones  softly  beaming, 

That  each  tiny  flower  gleamed  like  a  star  in  the  light 
That  over  its  pale  leaves  was  streaming. 

She  had  looked  on  that  lonely  and  desolate  hall 
In  the  pride  of  its  youth  and  its  glory, 

Yet  gazed  she  as  fondly  upon  the  old  wall, 
Now  lonely,  forsaken,  and  hoary. 


THE    RUIN.  47 

Still  unchanged  fell  her  silvery  light  on  each  stone, 
Now  marked  by  Time's  pitiless  fingers  ; 

And  thus  when  youth's  freshness  and  beauty  have 

gone, 
The  light  of  affection  still  lingers. 

In  my  bosom  was  hushed  all  its  tremulous  fears, 
For  I  felt,  as  I  gazed  on  its  shining, 

That  the  love  that   illumines  our   youth's   happy 

years, 
Will  beam  on  when  our  youth  is  declining. 


/alien. 


THOU  wert  once  beloved,  and  brightest 
Mid  the  fireside's  happy  throng ; 

Then  thy  footstep  was  the  lightest, 
And  the  merriest  thy  song. 

Lustrous  was  thine  eye,  unshaded 

By  a  trace  of  grief  or  care, 
And  thy  cheek,  now  wan  and  faded, 

Then  was  ever  bright  and  fair. 

Happy  friends,  the  loved  and  cherished, 
Gazed  with  pride  upon  thy  brow  ; 

Those  endearing  ties  have  perished, 
Ye  are  more  than  strangers  now. 


THE    FALLEN. 

And  when  memory  brings  around  thee 

Every  dear  familiar  scene, 
It  recalls  them  but  to  wound  thee 

With  the  dreams  of  what  hath  been. 

With  no  friend  to  soothe  or  love  thee, 
None  to  calm  thy  aching  breast, 

When  the  grave  shall  close  above  thee, 
Thou  wilt  find  thy  only  rest. 

Alas,  that  from  the  peaceful  bower 
Of  thy  childhood  thou  didst  stray  ! 

Fallen  star  and  blighted  flower, 
Heaven  light  thy  darkened  way  ! 


49 


50 


A  FEW  short  years  have  vanished  since  we  parted 

With  childhood's  thoughtless  innocence  and  glee, 
But  those  few  years  have  made  thee  colder  hearted, 

Have  won  from  thee  thy  sweet  sincerity. 
Thy  chilly  smile — I  turn  me  from  its  greeting, 

Its  lambent  light  can  warm  my  heart  no  more, 
As  hollow  as  the  moonbeam  and  as  fleeting, 

Not  like  the  dear  familiar  look  of  yore. 

The  cheering  sun  shines  after  April  showers, 
Day  bids  the  gloomy  shades  of  night  depart, 

Spring  gives  to  earth  again  her  robe  of  flowers, 
Does  Time  add  shadows  only  to  the  heart  ? 


TIME'S  CHANGES.  51 

Must  the  kind  words  we  have  so  often  spoken 
Be  but  an  echo  from  the  bright  days  past? 

For  in  thy  measured  accents  not  a  token 
Reminds  me  of  the  hours  that  flew  so  fast. 

My  childish  years  have  passed,  and  as  I  enter 

Upon  youth's  threshold,  wilt  thou  too  deceive  ? 
Shall  I  not  have  one  heart  in  which  to  centre 

My  hopes  and  fears,  one  breast  that  will  not 

grieve 
My  clinging  spirit  ?     Must  I  feel  too  surely 

Thou  art  the  world's  cold-hearted  devotee  ? 
Must  the  bright  lamp  be  quenched  that  beamed  so 
purely  ? 

Oh,  give  me  back  the  trust  I  had  in  thee ! 


52 


tffcon  tfrink  nf 


WHEN  distant  shores  shall  greet  thine  eyes, 

Ah !  wilt  thou  think  of  me  ? 
And  when  the  soft,  unclouded  skies 

Are  bending  over  thee 
In  glowing  beauty,  wilt  thou  cast 
A  single  thought  to  all  the  past, 

And  let  remembrance  be 
To  thee  a  talismanic  power 
To  give  thee  back  each  vanished  hour  ? 

When  o'er  the  softly  swelling  sea 

The  gentle  breezes  sweep, 
And  wake  the  waves  that  tremblingly 

Have  hushed  themselves  to  sleep, 


WILT    THOU    THINK    OF   ME?  53 

Let  the  roused  ocean  be  to  thee 
A  spell  to  waken  memory, 

Unchanging,  strong  and  deep, 
As  the  dark  waters  that  below 
The  foamy  waves,  in  silence  flow. 

I  would  not  have  thy  heart  forget 

Those  hours  for  ever  past, 
Nor  that  a  shadow  of  regret 

Thy  brow  should  overcast ; 
But  think  thy  love  a  pleasant  dream, 
That  like  the  moonlight's  silvery  gleam, 

"Was  never  made  to  last ; 
As  something  vague  and  shadowy, 
But  lovely  still. — Remember  me  ! 


54 


'Tis  eve — how  heavily  the  hours  roll  by ! 

My  weary  spirit  chides  their  tardy  flight — 
The  stars  gleam  faintly  in  the  quiet  sky — 

The  shadowy  twilight  deepens  into  night. 

When  rosy  morn  smiled  on  the  opening  flowers 
Her  joyous  welcome,  kissing  from  each  breast 

The  pearly  tears  left  by  eve's  silent  showers, 
Ere  they  had  closed  their  drooping  leaves  to  rest, 

I  watched  for  thee ;  and  when  the  waning  day 
Lit  with  its  parting  beams  the  glowing  west, 

I  sadly  gazed  upon  each  fading  ray, 

And  gentle  hope  half  withered  in  my  breast. 


THE   WATCHEK.  55 

And  I  have  held  my  breath  to  catch  the  sound 
Of  aught  that  seemed  a  footstep ;  and  my  heart 

Sprang  lightly  with  a  wild  and  joyous  bound, 
Then  sank  to  hear  the  last  faint  step  depart. 

My  hair  is  damp  with  the  soft  dews  of  eve, 
That  mingle  with  mine  own  their  gentle  tears ; 

Even  the  low  moaning   night-breeze   seems  to 

grieve 
With  me,  so  sad  its  dirge-like  wail  appears. 

I  have  leaned  so  long  and  wearily 

Upon  the  casement  stone,  my  eyes  are  wet 

And  dim  with  the  sad  watch  I've  kept  for  thee ; 
Though  light  and  hope  have  fled,  I  linger  yet. 

Night  closes  round  me  with  her  dusky  brow, 
Enwreathed  with  pearly  stars ;  but  their  soft 
light 

Falls  not  upon  my  heart ;  a  shadow  now 
Is  resting  on  it,  darker  than  the  night. 


56 


Deai). 


THINE  is  no  fair  and  verdant  grave, — 
Old  Ocean  has  thee  in  his  keeping  ; 

Beneath  the  clear  and  placid  wave, 
Mid  groves  of  coral  thou  art  sleeping. 

The  sea-weed's  clustering  leaves  entwine 
Among  thy  locks  all  darkly  flowing, 

And  snowy  shells  profusely  shine 

Around  a  brow  that  mocks  their  glowing. 

The  sea-bird  screams  thy  funeral  dirge, 
Responsive  to  the  foaming  billow ; 

And,  save  the  sad  and  moaning  surge, 
No  sigh  is  wafted  o'er  thy  pillow. 


THE    OCEAN   DEAD.  57 

There  is  no  gentle  eye  to  weep 

Above  the  spot  where  thou  art  sleeping, 

But  o'er  the  blue  and  heaving  deep, 

The  stars  their  silent  watch  are  keeping. 

They'll  guard  thy  calm,  undreaming  rest, 
"Whose  icy  chain  shall  ne'er  be  riven, 

Till  Ocean  from  his  heaving  breast, 
Resigns  thee  to  thy  native  heaven. 


58 


Inam. 


DREAM  on,  for  glorious  visions  gather  o'er  thee, 
Dazzling  thee  with  the  light  of  fame  ; 

Unveiled  the  brilliant  future  comes  before  thee, 
Wreathing  fresh  laurels  round  thy  name. 

Dreamer,  thou'rt  happy  now ;  a  bright  smile  lingers 
Upon  thy  brow — too  soon  it  will  depart — 

A  smile  impressed  by  fond  Hope's  rosy  fingers, 
And  all  that  waking  thou  wouldst  be  thou  art. 

There  are  soft  eyes  that  to  thine  own  are  bending 
Their  soul-lit  glances,  full  of  purest  light ; 

They  are  thy  mind's  creation,  and  ascending, 
Hover  around  thee,  beings  wildly  bright. 


THE    POET'S    DKEAM.  59 

Thou  hast  a  fair  and  limitless  dominion, 
Fancy  has  given  her  mystic  realm  to  thee, 

When  thy  freed  spirit  spreads  its  wandering  pinion, 
Joying  in  its  untrammeled  liberty. 

Oh !  'tis  a  glorious  world  in  thy  bright  vision, 
Making  thy  heart  for  a  brief  moment  glad ; 

But  when  recalled  from  those  bright  dreams  Ely- 

sian, 
Poet !  ah,  thy  awaking  will  be  sad ! 

As  the  caged  eagle  dreams  he  soars  unfearing, 
Toward  the  blue  heaven  with  tireless  wing  again, 

So  thou  wilt  wake  to  find  that  thou  art  wearing 
Wearily  life's  cold  and  heavy  chain. 


60 


Dtjitig  Sfitiitotifcrij. 


No  mother  lingers  near, 
Nor  sister  to  uphold  thy  dying  head ; 

Severed  from  all  on  earth  we  hold  most  dear, 
Strangers  alone  are  gathered  round  thy  bed ; 
And  yet  those  dusky  forms  above  thee  bending, 
With  tearful  eyes  their  gentle  aid  are  lending. 

Soon  will  thy  heaving  breast 
Cease  its  wild  throbbing,  and  each  pulse  be  stayed, 

And  thou  wilt  close  thy  weary  eyes  to  rest, 
As  a  child  sleepeth  calm  and  undismayed, 
Trusting  to  wake  to  a  more  glorious  morrow, 
Free  from  thine  earthly  heritage  of  sorrow. 


THE    DYING    MISSIONARY.  61 

In  India's  sunny  clime, 
Thy  faithful  followers  will  lay  thy  head 

Where  the  acacia  and  the  fragrant  lime 
Shower  their  blossoms  o'er  thy  lowly  bed, 
And  where  the  graceful  palm  will  gently  wave 
Its  broad  green  leaves  above  thy  verdant  grave. 

Thy  noble  task  is  done ; 
Rest  thee,  young  martyr,  for  thy  toil  is  o'er ; 

A  glorious  heritage  thy  deeds  have  won, 
A  home  where   grief  will  wring  thy  breast  no 

more  : 

There  was  too  little  stain  of  earthly  clay 
On  thy  soul's  pinions,  to  prolong  its  stay. 

And  thou  hast  won  a  name — 
Not  with  the  vain  ones  of  our  fleeting  earth  ; 

But  an  enduring  and  immortal  fame 
Enwreaths  thee  with  a  crown  of  richer  worth ; 
Each  rescued  soul  will  be  to  thee  a  gem 

O 

Glowing  upon  thy  heavenly  diadem. 
6 


62 


AY  !  Love's  frail  shrine  is  broken,  and  the  vail 
Of  his  bright  temple  hath  been  rent  at  last ; 

And  naught  but  memory,  shadowy  and  pale, 
Is  left  to  mourn  above  the  ruined  past. 

The  flowers  you  gave  have  withered ;  I  have  seen 
Their  leaves  fall  slowly  one  by  one  away ; 

And  their  frail  buds,  like  our  young  hopes,  have  been 
Destined  alike  to  premature  decay. 

I  look  upon  the  page  thou  lovest,  and  dream 
Thine  eyes  are  bent  upon  me,  and  I  raise 

Mine  own  to  meet  their  fond,  approving  beam, 
And  find  'tis  but  on  vacancy  I  gaze. 


TO  -.  63 

And  in  the  breeze  thy  voice  is  ever  near, 

With  the  lost  melody  of  other  days, 
When  its  soft  notes  were  music  to  my  ear, 

And  fancy's  power  their  loss  but  ill  repays. 

And  though  thy  hand  the  magic  chain  hath  broken, 
That  bound  my  willing  spirit  unto  thee, 

I  love  each  gentle  thought,  each  word  and  token 
Of  what  we  were,  and  what  we  ne'er  shall  be. 


64 


SB  raaq  not 

Slgiuti! 


I  PRAY  we  may  not  meet  again ! 

The  cold,  false  world  has  thrown 
Around  thy  heart  its  glittering  chain, 

And  made  thee  all  its  own ; 
And  though  thy  smile  be  still  as  bright, 

Its  soft  and  ceaseless  play 
Reflects  no  more  the  heart's  warm  light — 

That  beam  hath  passed  away. 

Thy  voice's  flute-like  notes  may  fall 
In  music  on  my  ear, 


I  PRAY  WE  MAY  NOT  MEET  AGAIN.   65 

They  want  the  earnest  truthfulness 

That  made  them  once  so  dear ; 
And  though  thy  words  be  whispered  low, 

In  the  soft  tones  of  yore, 
I  could  not  list  their  measured  flow — 

Their  charm  for  me  is  o'er. 

I  pray  we  may  not  meet  again  ! 

Within  my  heart's  deep  cell, 
Let  thy  loved  image  still  remain, 

Nor  break  fond  memory's  spell; 
I  would  not  meet  thee,  since  a  change 

Hath  swept  o'er  brow  and  heart — 
I'd  rather  dream  thee  what  thou  wert, 

Than  know  thee  what  thou  art. 


66 


Bonn. 


THOUGH  perfumed  breezes  softly  sweep 

Through  Persia's  vales  o'er  fadeless  roses, 
Where  buds  in  richest  perfume  steep 

Their  silken  leaves,  and  earth  discloses 
Her  choicest  treasures ;  on  the  air, 

The  simoom's  fatal  breath  will  come — 
Give  me  the  breeze  that  bends  the  trees, 

Whose  branches  shield  my  forest  home. 

They  tell  me  of  the  mighty  Rhine, 
Of  vine-clad  hills  whose  feet  it  laves, 

With  many  a  castle  on  its  shores, 

That  frowns  within  its  tranquil  waves ; 


MYFOKESTHOME.  67 

Though  wild  romance  its  spell  may  twine, 
Round  those  old  towers  I  would  not  roam, 

A  stream  far  brighter  than  the  Rhine 
Rushes  apast  my  woodland  home. 

Italia's  skies  are  deeply  blue, 

But  bend  above  a  land  of  slaves  ; 
Ours,  boasting  not  so  rich  a  hue, 

Smile  gently  o'er  the  honoured  graves 
Of  those  who  marked  the  earth  they  trod, 

With  the  red  seal  of  liberty, 
Not  lavished  at  a  tyrant's  nod, 

But  shed  by  hearts  that  would  be  free. 

Are  India's  tropic  flowers  more  fair 

Than  the  wild  blossoms  at  my  feet, 
That  give  their  perfume  to  the  air, 

Half  hidden  in  their  deep  retreat  ? 
And  though  unmarked  by  careless  eyes, 

They  humbly  bud  and  bloom  and  die, 
Too  much  their  modest  worth  I  prize, 

To  pass  their  beauty  idly  by. 


68  FOREST    FLOWERS. 

Yes,  nature's  hand,  with  matchless  power, 

Has  left  its  glorious  impress  here, 
On  hill  and  dale,  on  tree  and  flower, 

And  her  sweet  music  greets  my  ear, 
In  one  wild  gush  of  melody  : 

There  is  no  spot  'neath  heaven's  blue  dome, 
Has  half  so  many  charms  as  thee, 

My  loved  and  lovely  forest  home. 


69 


forgotten. 


HAVE  you  forgotten  the  sunny  glade, 

Down  by  the  little  spring, 
And  the  spreading  oak  tree's  leafy  shade, 

Where  first  the  wild  birds  sing  ; 
And  the  hill  where  the  purple  violets  blow, 

With  the  wood-lily's  snowy  bell, 
And  where  the  mint  and  rushes  grow 

In  the  green  and  mossy  dell  ? 

Do  you  remember  the  swing  we  made, 

Of  the  wild  and  bending  vine, 
Where  I  sat  and  sang  'neath  its  leafy  shade? 

For  a  merry  heart  was  mine  ! 


70  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

And  the  bench  on  which  you  carved  my  name, 

Beneath  the  walnut  tree  ? 
Far  dearer  was  that  rustic  seat 

Than  a  regal  throne  could  be ! 

There's  a  purer  joy  within  the  breast, 

In  childhood's  happy  days, 
When  all  the  holier  feelings  rest 

Unharmed  by  blame  or  praise ; 
When  tears  are  only  April  showers, 

And  followed  by  a  smile, 
And  we  only  see  life's  sunny  hours, 

Without  its  pain  and  guile. 

The  flowers  still  bloom  as  sweet  and  fair, 

The  wild  birds  sing  as  sweet, 
And  the  brook  rolls  on  its  silvery  waves, 

O'er  the  pebbles  at  my  feet ; 
But  I've  sat  upon  its  banks  and  tried 

To  be  as  gay  in  vain, 
For  those  days  of  innocence  and  glee, 

Ne'er  come  to  us  again. 


71 


t  inbtntra  lament. 


I  MUST  leave  the  forest  green  where  oft  I  chased 

the  flying  deer, 
The  river  where  my  swift  canoe  has  cleft  the  waters 

clear, 
The  hills  o'er  which  with  footsteps  light  in  youth 

I've  bounded  free, 
The  plain  on  which  our  warriors  sat  beneath  the 

council  tree. 

And  never  will  one  shrill  war-whoop  awaken  vale 

or  hill ; 
That  sound  was  once  familiar,  but  'tis  now  for  ever 

still; 


72  FOREST    FLOWERS. 

And   useless   is   my  tomahawk,   unbended   is  my 

bow — 
All,  all  are  worthless,  we  are  weak,  and  mighty  is 

our  foe. 

Like  the  snow  upon  the  mountains  we  are  wearing 

fast  away, 
And  the  white  man  in  his  avarice  will  joy  in  our 

decay ; 
He  bids  us  leave  the  cherished  homes  where  first  we 

drew  our  breath; 
He  forces  us  to  stranger  lands  and  leaves  us  naught 

but  death. 

I  wept  not  when  I  laid  my  aged  father  down  to 

rest, 
Nor  when  I  heaped  the  grassy  mound  above  his 

valiant  breast ; 
For  little  thought  the  mighty  chief  of  our  once 

powerful  race, 
The  white  man's  plough  would  e'er  be  driven  above 

his  resting-place. 


THE  INDIAN'S  LAMENT.  73 

The  mounds  that  we  have  raised  will  soon  be  levelled 
with  the  plain ; 

Upon  the  graves  that  we  have  loved  we  ne'er  may 
look  again ; 

The  white  man's  careless  foot  will  o'er  the  moul 
dering  ashes  tread — 

Tis  bitter  from  our  homes  to  part,  but  more  to  leave 
our  dead. 


74 


a  /mnb  at  parting. 


A  SMILE  and  a  sigh  to  the  past  ere  we  part, — 
A  smile  for  its  brightness,  a  sigh  for  its  flight ; 

The  wishes  that  rise  from  the  depths  of  my  heart 
Are  full  of  warm  feeling — Adieu  and  good  night ! 

Too  fleetly  those  hours  have  passed — they  flew  by, 
And   left   but    their    mem'ry   to   hallow   their 

fading ; 

As  the  bright  summer  roses,  that  wither  and  die, 
Yet  fall  with  sweet  perfume  their  scattered  leaves 
lading. 

Adieu !  I  have  looked  in  your  heart,  and  I  know 
You  will  not  forget  me — I  too  will  remember ; 


TO    A   FRIEND   AT    PARTING.  75 

Though  love  in  your  bosom  has  long  ceased  to  glow, 
Let  the  pure  light  of  friendship  replace  the  lost 
ember. 

And  should  you  live  on  when  this  heart  has  grown 

cold 

And  still,  and  my  kindred  earth  has  me  in  keep 
ing? 

Perchance  you  will  drop  a  warm  tear  on  the  mould 
That  wraps  the  chill  form  that  so  calmly  is  sleep- 


Then  a  smile  and  a  sigh  to  the  past  ere  we  part, — 
A  smile  for  its  brightness,  a  sigh  for  its  flight ; 

And  the  wishes  that  rise  from  the  depths  of  my 

heart 
Are  full  of  warm  feeling — Adieu  and  good  night ! 


76 


Visitant. 


The  same  mysterious  murmur  he  had  wondered  at  when  lying  on  his 
couch  on  the  beach,  he  thought  he  still  heard  wandering  through  his 
sister's  song. 

"Mamma  is  like  you,  Floy.  I  know  her  by  the  face.  But  tell  them  that 
the  print  upon  the  stairs  at  school  is  not  divine  enough.  The  light  about 
the  head  is  shining  on  me  as  I  go." 

The  golden  ripple  on  the  wall  came  back,  and  nothing  else  stirred  in  the 
room. 

DOMBET  AND  SON. 


WAS  it  a  voice  from  a  far-off  land, 

In  the  moan  of  the  fitful  sea, 
As  its  waves  broke  on  the  shelly  strand, 

With  a  strange,  wild  melody  ? 
It  floated  upon  the  balmy  air, 

It  came  in  the  wind's  loud  play, 
As  it  swept  o'er  thy  brow  so  pale  and  fair, 

And  whispered,  "Come,  come  away!" 


THE    HEAVENLY   VISITANT.  77 

Oh !  a  mother's  love  is  strong  and  deep  ! 

Did  she  soar  from  her  home  of  light, 
And  fold  her  wings  to  watch  thy  sleep, 

And  make  thy  visions  bright  ? 
When  thy  young  heart  beat  when  thou  wert  alone, 

And  shook  'neath  a  mystic  sway, 
Did  she  hover  around  thee  with  soft,  low  tone, 

And  bid  thee  to  come  away  ? 

Didst  thou  see  her  form  in  the  pale  moonlight 

As  it  gleamed  on  the  placid  sea, 
When  thy  cheek  grew  warm  and  thine  eye  grew 
bright, 

And  thy  breast  heaved  tremblingly  ? 
For  a  voice  came  out  on  the  summer  air, 

In  that  lovely,  cloudless  night, — 
Pale  boy,  was  thy  mother's  spirit  there, 

To  hasten  thy  young  soul's  flight  ? 

In  the  golden  light  of  the  setting  sun, 
Did  she  bend  o'er  thy  couch  of  pain  ? 

7* 


78  FOREST    FLOWERS. 

Ere  thy  earthly  pilgrimage  was  done, 
Did  she  visit  her  child  again  ? 

And  when  all  earthly  ties  were  riven, 
And  thy  guileless  heart  at  rest, 

Did  she  soar  again  to  her  native  heaven, 
With  her  treasure  on  her  breast  ? 


79 


BEND  down  thy  head  beneath  the  wave,  pale  flower; 

Seek  thou  a  shelter  for  thy  fragile  form ; 
The  tempest-breathing  clouds,  with  sullen  lower, 

Frown  fierce  and   dark  —  canst  thou  abide  the 
storm  ? 

The  winds  moan  fitfully — list  thou  the  warning ! 

Fold  thy  leaves  closely  o'er  thy  spotless  breast ; 
Bend  thy  fair  head,  or  thou  wilt  rue  thy  scorning; 

The  waves  will  rend  thee  in  their  wild  unrest. 

The  storm  hath  passed,  but  hath  not  left  a  token 
Of  the  pale  flower  that  dared  its  wrath  to  brave, 


80  FOREST    FLOWERS. 

Save  a  few   scattered   leaves,   torn,   crushed   and 

broken, 
Floating  upon  the  dark,  remorseless  wave. 

And  many  a  heart,  like  thee  fair  bud,  in  rending 
The  leaves  from  off  its  shrine,  hath  met  thy  lot, 

Unveiling  its  rich  depths,  and  vainly  sending 
Its  perfume  to  the  waves  that  heed  it  not. 

Better  to  fold  within  its  deepest  cell 

Its  treasures,  than  to  cast  them  to  the  ocean ; 

Better  content  in  solitude  to  dwell, 

With  leaves  unsullied  from  the  world's  commo 
tion. 


81 


THE  dust  is  on  thy  pallid  brow, 

The  marble  on  thy  breast, 
And  yet  thou  art  beside  me  now, 

A  strange  and  fearful  guest ; 
I  see  thee  in  thy  snowy  shroud, 

All  passionless  and  cold, 
And  a  manly  form  whose  head  is  bowed 

In  sorrow  on  thy  mould. 

Thou  art  sleeping  in  a  distant  land, 

Calmly  and  peacefully ; 
And  I  have  won  the  heart  and  hand 

That  once  were  pledged  to  thee ; 


82  FOREST    FLOWERS. 

His  breath  is  warm  upon  my  cheek, 
His  heart  beats  close  to  mine ; 

And  yet  the  words  his  fond  lips  speak, 
Were  once  all  breathed  to  thine. 

His  eyes  look  on  me  tenderly, 

His  vows  are  true,  and  yet 
I  feel  that  he  still  thinks  of  thee 

With  passionate  regret. 
My  heart  chills  at  each  mystic  sound, 

And  sinks  with  sudden  dread 
Of  thy  pale  shade — oh  !  I  have  found 

A  rival  in  the  dead  ! 

Thine  eye  and  cheek  have  lost  their  light 

Within  the  narrow  tomb ; 
But  I  know  he  dreams  of  thee  by  night 

In  thy  loveliness  and  bloom ; 
And  like  a  distant,  pearly  star, 

Though  gleaming  faint  and  dim, 
Thy  memory  is  dearer  far 

Than  my  living  love  to  him. 


83 


on  milt  Urnumhn  JEU. 


THOU  wilt  remember  me,  though  we  have  parted 

As  friends   should   never  part — estranged  and 

cold ; 
And  both  will  wander,  sad  and  weary-hearted, 

With  all  our  anguish  and  regret  untold. 
We  parted  with  a  smile  upon  each  cheek, 

That  mocked  the  heart  by  late  repentance  riven ; 
Yvre  forced  our  trembling  lips  calm  words  to  speak, 

That  pride  forbade  to  pray  to  be  forgiven. 

Thou  wilt  remember  me  when  Summer's  breath, 
Fanning  thy  brow,  brings  visions  of  past  hours, 

As  lovely  as  the  rosy  clouds  that  wreath 

Her  morn — alas  !  they  perished  like  her  flowers. 


84  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

When  some  familiar  strain  floats  on  thy  ear, 

When  soothing  words  by  gentle  lips  are  spoken, 

Then  thought  will  fold  her  weary  pinions  here, 
To  mourn   the   ties  that  our   own  hands  have 
broken. 

And  when  thou  wanderest  forth  at  eventide, 

When  retrospection's  potent  chain  hath  bound 

thee, 
Or  sitting  by  the  lonely  fireside, 

How  sad  remembrances  will  gather  round  thee — 
Ah !  memory  will  be,  to  thee  and  me 

No  spell  to  chase  the  weary  hours,  nor  lighten 
Life's  cares.     Alas  !  that  we  should  only  be 

A  shadow  on  the  path  wre  fain  would  brighten. 

When   o'er  some  favourite  book  thine  eyes  shall 

linger, 

With  the  world's  busy  cares  shut  out  from  thee, 
Some    page    that    I    have   marked   with    careful 

finger, 
May  meet  thy  gaze  and  fill  thy  thoughts  with  me ; 


THOU    WILT    REMEMBER    ME.  85 

Then  fancy  will  recall  the  past ;  till,  deeming 
That  I  am  bending  o'er  the  page  with  thee, 

Thou'lt  wake,  to  find  that  thou  wert  only  dreaming 
Of  what  hath  been,  and  what  can  never  be. 

Thou  wilt  remember  me  when  withered  flowers 

And  darkened   skies   proclaim   that    Summer's 

bloom 
Is  over :  then  those  sad  and  heavy  hours 

Will  fall  upon  thy  heart  with  deeper  gloom ; 
Thou'lt  sigh  perchance,  to  see  the  Autumn  wind 

Whirling  the  yellow  leaves,  once  fair  and  green ; 
Those  phantoms  of  the  past  will  bring  to  mind 

How  like  those  leaves  our  bright  day-dreams 
have  been. 

When   years   have   rolled   away,    perhaps   thou'lt 

meet  me 

With  the  same  placid  brow  and  careless  smile ; 
And  I  with  measured  tone  may  proudly  greet  thee, 
And  gentle  thoughts  within  our  hearts  the  while  ! 
8 


FOREST    FLOWERS. 


I  breathe  no  words  to  fan  pale  memory's  ember, 
Nor  fill  thy  heart  with  sorrow  and  regret ; 

And  yet  I  feel  that  I  must  still  remember, 
And  thou — I  know  thou  never  wilt  forget. 


8T 


How  like  our  childhood's  tears  and  smiles, 

Its  rainbow  hopes,  its  April  showers, 
Are  life's  sad  cares,  its  pleasant  wiles, 

Its  bitter  griefs,  its  sunny  hours ! 
A  child  in  sorrow  bent  her  head, 

A  cloud  of  grief  her  young  brow  shaded- 
"  Ah,  see  !  my  pretty  flower  is  dead, 

The  stem  is  broke,  the  leaves  are  faded. ': 

She  wept ;  but  while  the  rising  sigh 
Was  trembling  in  her  gentle  bosom, 

She  spied  a  painted  butterfly, 

And  soon  forgot  the  withered  blossom : 


88  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

And  thus,  within  the  web  of  life, 
Many  a  golden  thread  is  gleaming ; 

Peace  smooths  the  gloomy  brow  of  strife ; 

Through  sorrow's  night  hope's  star  is  beaming. 


dDIb  f  Ira. 


I  VISIT  thee  again,  old  tree, 

I  rest  beneath  thy  shade, 
And  think  a  change  hath  swept  o'er  me, 

Since  last  my  footsteps  strayed 
A  truant  from  the  rustic  school, 

To  pluck  the  violets  blue, 
The  foxglove  and  the  feathery  fern, 

That  round  thy  gnarled  root  grew. 

Five  springs  have  robed  thy  boughs  with  green, 

Five  autumns  o'er  them  past, 
And  whirled  their  dark  and  withered  leaves 

Upon  the  chilling  blast, 
8* 


90  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

And  left  no  mark,  on  trunk  or  bough, 

To  tell  how  time  hath  flown; 
But  a  thoughtful  shade  is  o'er  my  brow, — 

Mj  heart  less  trustful  grown. 

Of  care  or  change  I  had  no  fear, 

While  resting  'mid  the  flowers ; 
I  never  thought  of  tempest  near, 

In  those  bright  summer  hours, 
When  the  sun's  warm  rays,  through  the  parted  leaves, 

Came  down  and  kissed  my  brow ; 
But  I  dread  the  storm  when  the  sky  is  clear, — 

'Tis  not  all  sunshine  now. 

I  used  to  watch  the  fleecy  clouds 

Float  slowly  through  the  air, 
And  thought  they  might  be  angel  forms, 

They  looked  so  pure  and  fair ; 
Like  many  another  childish  dream, 

It  lost  its  rosy  hue ; 

But  I've  trusted  winning  smiles  and  words, 
And  found  them  vapour  too. 


THE    OLD    ELM.  91 

And  when  the  balmy  summer  breeze 

Waved  the  leaves  to  and  fro, 
I  thought  that  spirit  voices  there 

Were  whispering  soft  and  low, 
And  with  a  sense  of  awe  that  hushed 

The  beating  of  my  heart, 
I  listened,  half  afraid  to  stay, 

And  yet  could  not  depart. 

And  many  a  wild,  sweet  melody, 

Up  from  my  light  heart  sprung, 
While  seated  'neath  thy  shade,  old  tree, 

When  hope  and  I  were  young ; 
But  my  muse  hath  changed  her  brilliant  robe 

For  the  sober  garb  of  truth ; 
For  a  world  of  cold  realities, 

The  fairy -land  of  youth. 

I've  torn  a  twig  from  thee,  old  tree, 
With  young  leaves  fresh  and  green ; 

'Twill  be  a  talisman  to  me, 
Through  every  varying  scene ; 


92  FOBEST    FLOWER, S. 

'Twill  bear  my  thoughts  back  to  the  hours, 

The  golden  hours,  of  youth, 
And  teach  my  heart  to  keep  undimmed 

Its  innocence  and  truth. 


93 


Dnminu. 


But  the  sight  of  that  schoolhouse  brings  back  the  days  of  "  lang  syne." 
Well  do  I  remember  the  old  parish  school,  where  I  received  my  preparation 
for  college,  under  the  free  and  easy  but  most  efficient  administration  of 
Dominie  Menrose.  Dear  old  man!  he  has  long  ago  "  gone  to  the  yird,"  but 
his  memory  is  as  green  as  the  grass  that  waves  upon  his  grave. 

TURNBULL'S  GENIUS  OF  SCOTLAND. 

THE  sight  of  that  old  school  has  brought 

My  boyhood  back  to  me, 
Its  transient  grief,  o'er  toilsome  tasks, 

Its  thoughtlessness  and  glee : 
I  see  a  venerable  face, 

'Mid  the  familiar  throng, 
And  through  the  open  casement,  hear 

The  thrush's  matin  song. 

I  see  the  yellow,  waving  broom, 
The  fragrant,  heathery  lea, 


94  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

Where  oft  I've  conned  my  task  apart, 
Beneath  some  spreading  tree  ; 

Or  watched  the  sun  the  hill-tops  gild, 
With  his  departing  rays, 

And  heard  from  many  a  lowly  cot, 
The  voice  of  heartfelt  praise. 

The  hawthorn  with  its  blossoms  white, 

That  grew  within  the  dell, 
Where  daisies  dotted  the  long  grass, 

And  many  a  heather  bell ; 
The  little  stream  that  murmured  near, 

With  rushes  on  its  brink, 
Where  oft  I've  bathed  my  heated  brow, 

Or  bent  my  head  to  drink. 

When  in  the  pleasant  summer-time, 
I  used  to  haste  each  morn 

To  play  before  the  school  began, 
Upon  the  dewy  lawn  ; 

The  lark  sprang  from  its  grassy  couch, 
Its  thrilling  notes  to  pour— 


THE    DOMINIE.  95 

I've  never  heard  it  sing  so  sweet 
As  in  the  days  of  yore. 

Again  I  see  the  kind  old  man, 

Whose  mild  and  pleasant  look, 
More  than  reproof,  would  make  me  fix 

My  eyes  upon  my  book, 
When  to  the  open  window  pane 

I've  turned  my  head,  to  view 
The  humming-birds,  that  came  to  sip 

The  woodbine  waving  through. 

The  place  is  strangely  altered  now, — 

The  kind  old  man  is  gone, 
And  in  the  little  churchyard  near, 

A  gray  and  mossy  stone 
Marks  where  he  sleeps ; — his  soul  has  found 

Eternal  rest  above ; 
But  living  hearts  will  keep  in  mind, 

His  gentleness  and  love. 


96 


Cmn0 


IT  was  a  strange  and  lovely  flower — 
I  marvelled  that  so  rude  a  stem 

Could  e'er  be  gifted  with  the  power 
To  bear  so  beautiful  a  gem. 

No  graceful  branch  above  it  spread, 
Nor  verdant  leaf  by  zephyrs  fanned ; 

But  from  a  dark  and  thorny  bed, 
I  watched  the  rugged  bud  expand. 

In  vain  my  humbler  flowers  exhaled 
Their  perfume  on  the  morning  air  ; 

Their  odour  fled,  their  beauty  paled, 
But  won  from  me  no  gentle  care. 


THE   NIGHT-BLOOMING   CEREUS.  97 

But  day  by  day,  and  hour  by  hour, 
I  sought  my  favourite's  green  retreat; 

My  hand  supplied  the  cooling  shower, 
And  screened  it  from  the  noontide  heat. 

It  opened  when  the  waning  day 

Shed  o'er  the  earth  its  soft,  gray  light ; 

And  gleaming  in  the  moon's  pale  ray, 
It  spread  its  fragrant  petals  white. 

Its  perfume  made  the  slumbering  air 
Heavy  with  its  rich  breath,  that  rose 

Up  from  a  vase  as  pure  and  fair, 
As  moonlight  upon  Alpine  snows. 

I  left  it  beautiful  and  fair, 

I  sought  it  with  the  morning  light, 

Nor  bloom  nor  loveliness  was  there, 
A  darkened  ruin  met  my  sight. 

Thus  some  fond  hope,  to  which  we  give 

The  mind's  rich  depths,  the  soul's  full  power, 

In  one  brief  night  may  cease  to  live, 
Like  this  bright,  perishable  flower. 


98 


portraits. 


EDITH. 

THE  diamond  lights  up  her  midnight  hair, 

The  soft  pearl  gleams  on  her  snowy  breast ; 
But  the  gem  illumes  not  her  soul's  despair, 

And  the  pure  pearl  lies  on  a  heart  unblessed. 
There  is  no  soft  light  in  her  glorious  eyes, 

By  hope,  or  by  gentle  feelings,  wrought ; 
And  the  brow,  on  the  small,  white  palm  that  lies, 

Is  marked  by  bitter,  and  proud,  dark  thought. 

Memory  has  no  power  to  bless, 

With  some  bright  hope,  nursed  in  youth's  joyous 
beam, 


TWO    PORTRAITS.  99 

Or  win  from  its  utter  wretchedness 

Her  heart,    with  a  glimpse   of  some   vanished 

dream. 
Priestess  and  victim,  her  hand  has  laid 

Her  soul's  best  gifts  upon  Mammon's  shrine ; 
And  now,  mid  the  wreck  which  her  own  act  made, 

In  her  stately  home,  does  her  spirit  pine. 

She  is  musing  alone,  with  her  form  of  grace 

Scarce  seen  by  the  lamp's  expiring  glare; 
With  her  proud  neck  arched,  and  her  haughty  face, 

In  its  fearful  beauty,  frowning  there. 
On  her  queenly  lip,  and  her  marble  brow, 

As  she  darkly  broods,  through  the  night's  still 

gloom, 
Are  evil  feelings  gathering  now, 

And  bitter  revenge  in  her  heart  finds  room. 

Revenge  for  the  first  warm  feeling — crushed, 
That  ever  sprang  in  her  lonely  breast ; 

And  the  stormy  heart,  for  a  moment  hushed, 
Wakens  again  to  its  wild  unrest. 


100  FOKEST    FLOWERS. 

No  roses  spring  in  her  path  through  life, 

No  sweet,  pure  fount  that  her  lip  may  taste; 

The  past  is  a  ruin — the  present,  a  strife — 
And  the  future,  a  dark  and  an  arid  waste. 


FLORENCE. 

The  soft  curls  lie  on  her  forehead  fair, 

With  its  pearly  curve  so  calm  and  meek, 
That  sorrow  grows  gentler  while  resting  there, 

And  lightly  touches  her  brow  and  cheek. 
There  are  large,  bright  tears  in  her  dove-like  eyes, 

Such  tears  as  the  young  and  the  pure  can  shed, 
When  some  fond  hope  the  heart  cherished,  flies — 

For  some  harsh  word  spoken — some  loved  one 
fled. 

She  mourns  for  the  dead ;  and  sadder  far 
For  the  living,  who  have  no  love  to  give ; 

But  never  to  her  grows  dim  hope's  star, 

And  her  heart  finds  strength  in  its  trust  to  live. 


TWO    PORTRAITS.  101 

Her  rose-lips  move,  in  her  earnest  prayer 
For  a  father's  love,  a  father's  kiss — 

Strange,  that  a  being  so  pure  and  fail- 
Should  be  unloved  in  a  world  like  this ! 

She  is  kneeling  in  the  silent  room, 

By  the  vacant  chair,  and  the  lonely  bed ; 
And  the  setting  sun,  with  its  golden  bloom, 

Falls  on  her  fair  and  bended  head ; 
And  in  its  light  does  a  vision  steal, 

Of  an  angel  form  and  an  angel  face, 
Till  her  heaving  bosom  seems  to  feel 

The  pressure  of  that  last,  dear  embrace. 

She  feels  the  kiss,  still  fresh  and  warm, 

From  lips  that  are  cold  'neath  the  churchyard 

stone ; 
She  is  folded  again  by  the  loving  arm 

Whose  parting  clasp  was  for  her  alone ; 
And  her  spirit  owns  their  gentle  sway, 

Those  memories  of  the  loved  and  dead, 
And  meekly  she  strives  to  win  her  way, 

Through  the  thorns  upon  her  pathway  spread. 


102 


tntno. 


WELCOME,  sweet  summer  breeze  ! 
With  my  loose  tresses  ye  are  lightly  playing, 
O'er  my  pale  brow  I  feel  your  soft  breath  straying, 

Murmuring  low  cadences. 

Your  gentle  soothing  brings 
Sweet  pensive  recollections,  my  heart  flooding, 
Where  memory,  like  a  plaintive  dove,  sits  brooding 

Ever  with  folded  wings. 

Long  years  ago, 

Through  the  dim  forest  aisles,  I've  heard  ye  sigh 
ing* 
While  the  young  rustling  leaves  did  seem  replying, 

In  whispers  soft  and  low. 


STANZAS.  103 

There  many  a  summer  day, 
When  the  bright  sun  through  the  thick   branches 

gleaming, 
Threw    his    long,   golden    shafts,   I've   whiled    in 

dreaming 
The  light-winged  hours  away. 

It  was  a  happy  dream ; 

For  youth  and  hope  and  joy,  the  future  weaving, 
Dyed  it  with  their  own  hues ;  and  I,  believing, 

Crossed  childhood's  narrow  stream. 

And  yet,  had  I 

Been  less  a  dreamer,  life  had  been  less  weary ; 
And  much  that  now  looks  gloomy,  wild,  and  eerie, 

Had  worn  a  brighter  dye. 

But  not  for  naught 

Was  aught  created  in  God's  vast  dominions, 
From   Heaven's  bright,  starry  hosts,  to  thy  soft 
pinions, 

With  balmy  coolness  fraught. 


104  FOREST    FLOWERS. 

Then  must  this  heart, 

With  lofty  thoughts  and  aspirations  teeming, 
Have  some  far  higher  mission  than  day-dreaming, 

In  life  some  nobler  part. 

Then  let  it  be  like  thine, 
A  gentle  one :  to  soothe  the  weary  hearted, 
To  dry  the  eye  from  whence  grief's  tear  has  started; 

Let  such  a  task  be  mine. 

And  when  mine  eyes  grow  dim, 
And  my  breath  fails,  come  thou  where  I  am  lying, 
Death's  seal  upon  my  brow,  and  gently  sighing, 

Breathe  thou  my  requiem. 


105 


nnmer. 


'TwAS  a  morn  in  summer,  a  glorious  morn, 

Like  a  smile  from  heaven  to  our  sad  earth  borne ; 

A  morn  when  the  spirit  exultant  springs, 

Full  of  hope's  sweet  imaginings  : 

The  breath  of  flowers  through  the  casement  strayed, 

The  breeze  with  the  rustling  curtain  played ; 

And  the  twining  rose  flung  in  the  room 

Bright  crimson  leaves  from  its  wealth  of  bloom ; 

The  waving  boughs  of  the  old  oak  tree 

Were  making  a  sweet,  faint  melody, 

As  the  young  leaves  rustled  to  and  fro, 

Now  with  a  murmur  soft  and  low, 

Now  with  a  deep  and  plaintive  swell, 

Like  the  sound  enclosed  in  an  ocean  shell ; 


106  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

And  far  away,  in  the  clear  blue  air, 
Two  white  clouds  spread  their  pinions  fair, 
Like  guardian  spirits  watching  there  ; 
And  a  halo  of  beauty  spread  over  all, 
As  if  earth  were  holding  a  festival. 

A  mother  her  gentle  watch  was  keeping 
Above  the  couch  where  her  babe  was  sleeping : 
He  had  folded  his  dimpled  hands  to  rest, 
Over  his  pure,  untroubled  breast ; 
The  breeze  that  played  round  his  cradled  head, 
On  his  pearly  forehead  a  soft  glow  shed ; 
And  a  rosy  flush  on  his  cheek  so  fair ; 

A  sunbeam  nestled  amid  his  hair, 

As  it  were  charmed  with  its  resting-place, 

So  near  that  lovely  and  guileless  face ; 

And  he  seemed  as  bright,  as  frail  a  thing, 

As  the  flowers  around  him  withering. 

A  smile  on  the  face  of  the  sleeper  woke, 
And  a  murmur  over  his  rose-lips  broke, 
And  his  brow  had  a  look  of  heavenly  bliss 
But  rarely  seen  in  a  world  like  this ; 


THE    DREAMER.  107 

But  a  shadow  came  o'er  the  sleeper's  dream, 

Like  a  shade  creeping  over  a  sunny  stream ; 

And  his  brow  wore  the  impress  of  sad,  deep  thought ; 

I  gazed  on  the  change  in  a  moment  wrought. 

Then  pressed  my  lips  to  his  forehead  fair, 

And  breathed  o'er  the  dreamer  an  earnest  prayer. 

The  mother  looked  in  my  face  and  smiled, 
"What  were  you  whispering  to  the  child?" 
"I  was  breathing  a  wish  for  your  gentle  boy." 
"Was  it  honour,  long  life,  wealth,  fame,  and  joy  ?" 
"  I  prayed  that  he  might  never  know 
Joy's  bitter  dregs,  Fame's  dower  of  woe  ; 
That  bright  and  fleeting  might  be  his  stay, 
As  the  breath  and  bloom  of  a  summer  day, 
And  that  his  young  spirit  might  soon  take  wing, 
Knowing  naught  of  life  but  its  happy  spring." 


108 


/anntnin. 


IN  a  calm  and  peaceful  valley,  from  the  rude  world 

far  away, 
Sprang  a  little  fount  whose  wavelets  shunned  the 

bright  sun's  burning  ray  ; 
Sheltered  by  the   trees  that    over  it   their   leafy 

branches  spread, 
And  the  flowers  that  on  its  emerald  banks  their 

richest  odours  shed. 

And  the  murmur  of  its  waters  was  seldom  ever 
heard, 

For  the  winged  insects  joyous  hum  and  the  song  of 
summer  bird ; 

And  wanderers  from  the  busy  world  but  rarely  en 
tered  there, 

And  the  fountain  held  its  gentle  course  unruffled, 
pure,  and  fair. 


THE  UNSEALED  FOUNTAIN.      109 

To  that  calm,  secluded  valley  an  enchanter  came 

one  day, 
And  he  saw  the  little  streamlet  winding  on  its  quiet 

way, 
And  he  loved  it  for  its  hidden  charms ;  and  bending 

o'er  the  stream, 
He  loosed  the  waves  and  gave  them  sparkling  to 

the  sun's  bright  beam. 

And  at  his  touch  awakened  the  sweet  melody  that 
slept, 

A  tide  of  song  that  in  its  depths  unknown  the  foun 
tain  kept ; 

And  brighter,  purer  grew  his  form  when  mirrored 
in  the  breast 

Of  that  clear  fount  whose  troubled  waves  no  power 
could  lull  to  rest. 

But  the  world  had  many  charms  for  him,  and  it 

lured  him  back  again, 
Ambition  round  his  noble  heart  had  forged  its  icy 

chain ; 

10 


110  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

And  he  left  the  fount,  unheeding  the  sad  change 

his  art  had  made, 
Wandering  through  a  rugged   channel,  far  from 

vale  and  woodland  shade. 

And  darker  grew  the  waters,  though  their  music 

did  not  fail, 
But  oftentimes  it  sounded  like  a  wounded  spirit's 

wail ; 
Its  siren  power   enchained  the  soul  with  melody 

divine, 
And  human  hearts  bowed  down  to  it  as  to  a  veiled 

shrine. 

But  praise  and  homage  could  not  fill  the  fountain's 

source  again, 
With  the  pure,  unsullied  waters,  that  were  once 

poured  forth  in  vain ; 
And  sadder  grew  its  melody,  and  fainter,  day  by 

day, 
Till  the  little  fount,   aweary,  in  the  dark  earth 

passed  away. 


Ill 


Hums  of 


I  COVET  back  the  golden  hours 

Of  youth,  too  quickly  flown  ! 
The  hopes,  the  thoughts,  the  wasted  powers, 

Upon  their  pathway  strown  ! 
But  they  have  passed :  too  bright  to  last ! 

The  fleetest  in  life's  train  ! 
Like  faded  flowers,  those  vanished  hours 

Will  never  come  again. 

Oh  for  the  tears,  the  warm  and  brief, 

The  gushing  tears  of  old  ! 
Ah !  how  unlike  this  wasting  grief, 

So  heavy,  dark,  and  cold ! 


112  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

The  heart's  quick  swell,  the  drops  that  fell, 

Its  pure,  unsullied  rain — 
I'd  give  Hope's  wiles,  Fame's  sweetest  smiles, 

To  shed  them  o'er  again. 

Oh  for  the  mirth  that  used  to  rise 

Unbidden,  pure,  and  wild ! 
When  coming  to  my  joyous  eyes, 

My  soul  looked  out  and  smiled ; 
But  now  the  light  that  sparkles  bright, 

In  bitterness  has  birth, 
The  smile  that  flics  to  lips  and  eyes, 

Is  mockery,  not  mirth. 

Oh  for  the  visions  that  were  cast, 

Like  sunshine,  on  life's  stream  ! 
Would  that  my  spirit  could  have  passed 

Away  in  some  bright  dream  ! 
Nor  lived  to  know  the  soul's  warm  glow 

May  fade  in  life's  first  bloom ; 
That  ere  its  light  is  quenched  in  night, 

The  heart  may  be  a  tomb. 


113 


As  a  smooth,  quiet  lake,  whose  crystal  wave 

Scarce  ripples  with  the  passing  breeze,  then  lies 
Mirroring  the  azure  of  the  summer  skies, 

With  bosom  motionless  and  tranquil,  save 

The  rippling  murmur  of  each  tiny  wave 
Breaking  upon  the  shore ;  the  sand  below, 

Like  liquid  silver,  in  the  sunlight  gleams ; 

And  water-plants  and  pebbles,  white  as  snow, 

Glow  with  a  brighter  lustre  in  its  beams : 

They  look  so  near  the  surface,  you  would  think 
To  stretch  an  arm  over  the  water's  brink 

That  you  might  reach  them ;  but  the  lake  is  deep, 
And  the  still  wave,  so  motionless  and  clear, 
10* 


114  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

Can  rouse  its  curling  billows  from  their  sleep, 

And  dash  in  startled  fury  on  the  ear. 
So  many  a  mind,  like  that  calm  lake,  may  be 

Deeper  than  the  unpractised  eye  would  deem, 
Holding  its  treasures  safe,  while  joyously 

Its  light  waves  dance  beneath  the  sun's  bright 

gleam ; 
But,  when  the  darkened  horizon  foretells 

The  wildness  of  the  coming  tempest's  strife, 
Undauntedly  the  fearless  bosom  swells, 

To  battle  with  the  adverse  storms  of  life. 


115 


/all  of  tfjt  dbak. 


IN  the  shadowy  land  of  the  past,  are  sleeping 

Sunny  hours,  and  hopes,  and  tears  ; 
Soft  April  showers  that  were  not  weeping ; 

Sweet  visions,  that  haunt  not  our  riper  years ; 
Scenes  that  the  heart,  in  its  young  life  glowing, 

Hallowed  with  beauty,  its  own  sweet  art, 
On  humble  things  a  worth  bestowing, — 

For  an  alchemist  rare  is  a  light  young  heart. 

In  a  dim  old  wood,  by  my  footsteps  haunted, 
A  stately  oak  tree  reared  its  head ; 

Many  a  storm  it  had  braved  undaunted, 
With  its  giant  arms  like  banners  spread : 


116  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

There  is  many  a  sweet  remembrance  clinging 
To  the  days  when  I  nestled  at  its  foot ; 

Sweet  as  the  flowers  each  year  saw  springing 
'Mid  the  moss  that  grew  at  its  tangled  root. 

There  many  an  hour  I've  whiled  in  dreaming 

Dreams  such  as  childhood  only  weaves, 
Till  the  setting  sun,  through  the  tree-tops  gleaming, 

Flung  its  golden  shafts  through  the  parted  leaves; 
But  far  away,  with  a  tireless  pinion, 

Through  the  realms  of  beauty,  and  hope,  and  light, 
Imagination's  fair  dominion, 

My  spirit  was  winging  its  eager  flight. 

Years  past : — once  more  I  was  idly  straying, 
With  an  altered  cheek  and  a  spirit  bowed, 
Through  the  wood,  whose  boughs,  in  the  chill  breeze 

swaying, 
Flung  their  leaves  at  my  feet,  in  a  withered 

crowd : 

There  was  no  sound  of  the  wild  bird  singing — 
With  the  breath  of  summer  the  birds  had  flown ; 


THE   FALL   OF   THE   OAK.  117 

But  the  woodman's  axe,  through  the  forest  ringing, 
Fell  on  my  ear  with  its  clear,  sharp  tone. 

'Neath  the  forester's  arm  was  slowly  falling 

The  oak,  the  friend  of  my  brighter  years, 
And  I  gazed  on  it  sadly,  the  past  recalling, 

When  it  bent  o'er  my  joys,  and  my  hopes,  and 

fears ; 
When  its  rustling  leaves,  in  the  light  breeze  playing, 

Soothed  my  heart  with  their  music  when  I  wept, 
Or  screened  my  face,  lest  the  sunbeams  straying, 

Should  break  my  dreams  as  I  calmly  slept. 

It  quivered — it  bowed — the  trunk  was  riven — 

It  slowly  fell  on  the  earth's  dark  breast:  — 
I  turned — my  tears  had  been  freely  given, 

But  the  fount  was  frozen,  each  pulse  at  rest ; 
For  many  a  golden  hope  I  cherished, 

Fell,  ere  its  stately  head  was  bowed ; 
Many  a  sweet,  frail  dream  had  perished, 

For  which  its  leaves  were  a  fitting  shroud. 


118 


Imnbtuh 


MAGIAN,  at  the  golden  gate 

Of  my  heart,  why  dost  thou  wait  ? 

Why  thy  ceaseless  vigils  keep — 
Steeped  in  sleep's  delicious  balm, 
Knowing  only  holiest  calm  ? 
Wouldst  thou  mar  its  peace,  and  call 
Restless  strangers  to  the  hall, 

Where  quiet  reigns  profound  and  deep  ? 
Ah !  thy  trembling  hand  dost  hold 
A  cup  of  rare  and  choicest  mould, 
Wrought  by  fairy  hands  divine, 
Mantling  with  life's  richest  wine  ; 
But  I  know  it  will  impart 
A  wild  fever  to  my  heart. 


THE   AWAKENED   HEART.  119 

Thy  rash  hand,  magician,  stay  ! 
Take  the  tempting  draught  away — 

Let  it  sleep. 

Sparkling  to  the  goblet's  brim, 
Glowing,  flowing  o'er  the  rim, 

Golden  drops  of  nectar  weep  ; 
And  as  falls  the  rain  divine, 
On  this  slumbering  heart  of  mine, 
Trembling  with  a  sudden  thrill, 
I  may  never,  never  still, 

Wake  its  pulses  strong  and  deep. 
Summoned  by  thy  mystic  call, 
Through  the  vacant,  echoing  hall, 
Come  a  strange  and  varied  throng, 
Some  with  weeping,  some  with  song ; 
Passion,  tenderness,  and  fear, 
Hope,  and  doubt,  find  entrance  here, 
Crowded  to  its  inmost  core, 
Wakened  heart,  ah  !  never  more 

Will  it  sleep  ! 


120 


I  PRAY  thee,  do  not  chide  her  tears — 

I  smile  to  see  her  weeping ; 
The  youthful  heart  dissolves  in  rain, 

The  clouds  around  it  sweeping, 
I  love  to  mark  the  fluttering  sigh 

That  stirs  within  her  bosom, 
The  tear  that  trembles  on  her  cheek, 

Like  dew  upon  a  blossom. 

She  yearns  for  kindly  tones  and  words 
To  soothe  its  heavy  aching  ; 

When  the  heart  asks  for  sympathy, 
Be  sure  it  is  not  breaking. 


TEARS.  121 

Then  chide  her  not — those  trembling  lips, 

In  later  years,  may  borrow 
False  smiles  and  words  of  wildest  mirth, 

To  veil  a  deeper  sorrow. 

We  learn  too  soon  to  mock  the  woe 

That  will  not  brook  revealing, 
With  phosphorescent  brilliancy 

The  heart's  decay  concealing ; 
We  wish  no  eye  to  scan  the  tomb 

Where  our  dead  hopes  are  lying ; 
Where  friendships,  pleasures,  love  and  joy, 

Lie  faded,  crushed,  and  dying. 

We  gaze  in  silence  on  the  cup 

Presented  for  our  draining ; 
The  gall-drops  bathe  our  shuddering  lips— 

They  utter  no  complaining ; 
Yet  when  one  drop  of  bitterness 

Mingled  our  draught  of  gladness, 
We  shed  warm  tears  within  the  bowl, 

And  turned  away  in  sadness. 
11 


122  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

Now  is  her  young  heart's  April  time, 

Its  sweetest  flowers  are  springing ; 
And  in  some  fragrant,  sheltered  nook, 

The  bird  of  Hope  is  singing  ; 
Then  let  her  weep,  that  on  her  path 

Lies  withered  one  frail  flower ; 
When  blossoms,  buds,  and  leaves  have  died, 

She  will  not  have  the  power. 


123 


THY  rock  still  frowns  above  the  wave 

That  sleeps  on  the  breast  of  the  clear,  blue  Rhine, 
Whose  every  bank,  and  crag,  and  cave, 

Hath  its  legend — but  none  so  wild  as  thine. 
The  fisherman  paused  to  list  thy  song, 

As  it  floated  upon  the  evening  air, 
But  vainly  he  sought  the  rocks  among, 

For  the  lovely  spirit  lurking  there, 

Bright  Lorely ! 

Thy  ethereal  nature — could  it  not 

Have  shielded  thy  soft  and  gentle  heart 

From  an  earthly  love  and  a  mortal  lot, 
Ere  these  wild  rocks  lost  thy  tuneful  art  ? 


124  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

When  thy  snowy  fingers  led  the  way, 
For  a  human  love,  to  thy  rocky  bower, 

Where  mortal  foot  might  never  stray, 
Thy  witching  strain  lost  its  siren  power, 
*  Sweet  Lorely ! 

And  prisoned  in  the  azure  wave, 

Within  whose  rapid,  foaming  tide, 
Thy  maddened  lover  found  a  grave, 

But  ne'er  regained  his  spirit  bride, 
Thy  strange,  wild  beauty  never  will 

Be  seen  upon  thy  rock  again ; 
But  when  the  waves  are  hushed- and  still, 

Is  sometimes  heard  thy  mournful  strain, 
Lost  Lorely ! 


125 


I 


WHEN  the  cooling  breeze  of  even  waved  the 
branches  to  and  fro, 

And  the  stars,  like  guardian  angels,  watched  the 
sleeping  world  below, 

I  leaned  upon  the  casement,  with  my  head  upon  my 
hand, 

And  sent  my  restless  spirit  to  the  realms  of  Fancy- 
land. 

There  it  wandered  through  long  vistas,  full  of  light, 
and  song,  and  bloom, 

Where  no  fading  flowers  reminded  kindred  blos 
soms  of  their  doom  ; 


126  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

Through  fair  groves,  where  golden  sunshine  con 
tended  with  the  shade, 

By  the  interlacing  branches  and  the  vines  that 
bound  them  made. 

And  music,  like  soft   incense,  floated,  rose,  and 

swelled  around, 
Till  the  fragrant  air  was  tremulous  with  its  burthen 

of  sweet  sound ; 
And  Love  was  there  with  folded  wings,  no  blind  and 

wayward  boy, 
But  an  angel,  'neath  whose  dreamy  lids  dwelt  pure 

and  holy  joy. 

In  this  charmed  land  of  beauty,   that  wooed  its 

longer  stay, 
My  soul  basked  in  the  loveliness  it  might  not  bear 

away; 
Till,  on  the  crystal  bosom  of  one  of  its  bright 

streams, 
It  floated  softly,  silently,  to  the   misty  realm  of 

dreams. 


A   VISION.  127 

But  the  placid  waves  grew  troubled  as  they  neared 

the  hazy  strand, 
And  looming  through  the  mist  appeared  a  wild  and 

desert  land ; 
Dark  rocks  frowned  on  the  sullen  sea  that  beat  the 

sullen  shore, 
Till  the  earth  re-echoed  back  each  stroke,  in  a  dull, 

continuous  roar. 

No  light  breeze  curled  the  billows,  no  breath  came 

from  the  land, 
Where  no  wildbird  sang,  no  flower  grew,  amid  its 

waste  of  sand ; 
The  sullen  air  seemed  palpable,  and  a  heavy  rack 

of  clouds 
Was   gathered,   black  and   ominous,    in  dull   and 

stagnant  crowds. 

And  my  spirit,  sad  and  fearful,  struggled  up  the 

rocky  shore, 
For  its  wings  were  soiled  and  heavy,  and  its  weary 

feet  were  sore ; 


128  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

And  a  sense  of  awe  pervaded  it,  a  strange,  mys 
terious  gloom, 

Like  one  who  walks  at  twilight  in  the  shadow  of  a 
tomb. 

Upon  the  thick  and  moveless  air  rolled  a  deep  fu 
nereal  bell, 

Till  the  firm  rocks  heaved  and  trembled  with  the 
thunder  of  its  knell : 

Keeping  time  to  its  solemn  tolling,  a  ghastly  train 
went  by, 

Of  shadowy  forms,  that  slowly  passed  before  my 
straining  eye. 

And  my  wondering  spirit  recognised  its  half-for 
gotten  dead, 

With  the  dust  of  the  tomb  upon  each  brow,  whence 
the  living  bloom  had  fled ; 

And  a  sudden  terror  through  my  soul  a  fearful 
shudder  sent — 

Eternity  might  ask  of  me  the  bright  ones  Time  had 
lent. 


A  VISION.  129 

One  passed  me  with  her  pallid  brow  encircled  by  a 
wreath, 

But  a  serpent  bound  her  temples  the  withered 
leaves  beneath : 

And  one  swept  proudly  by  me,  her  dark  eyes 
bright  with  ire, 

And  flung,  in  anger,  at  my  feet,  a  broken,  chord- 
less  lyre. 

And  one  gazed  at  me  mournfully,  with  eyes  all  dim 
and  meek, 

And  with  her  tresses  strove  to  hide  a  stain  on  lip 
and  cheek ; 

One  hand  clasped  a  fair  rose-bud,  but  she  pressed 
the  leaves  apart, 

And  I  saw  a  fearful  canker  feeding  on  the  with 
ering  heart. 

And  some  went  empty-handed,  with  listless  step 

and  slow, 
Murmuring  over  idle  thoughts,    with  voices  faint 

and  low ; 


130  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

Thoughts  that  crushed  their  young  lives  recklessly 
with  their  gift  of  glorious  powers — 

Oh,  never  may  my  soul  again  behold  its  murdered 
hours  ! 

With  hands  clasped  close  together,  in  vain  I  strove 

to  speak, 

But  the  effort  only  ended  in  an  agonizing  shriek ; 
Then  fading  from  my  vision,   rolled  the  strange 

and  shadowy  land — 
I  was  leaning  on  the  casement,  with  my  head  upon 

my  hand. 


131 


dMhn  Haunts, 


ALL  our  olden  haunts  I  wandered  o'er, 

In  the  forest's  shade,  by  the  lake's  green  shore, 

Where  the  pensive  willow  stoops  to  lave 

Its  slender  arms  in  the  glassy  wave ; 

I  gathered  sweet  flag  by  the  water's  edge, 

And  heard  the  breeze  moan  through  the  restless 


I  sought  our  nook  in  the  dim  old  wood, 

But  the  tree  was  gone  where  our  playhouse  stood ; 

And  over  our  rustic  seat  of  stone, 

Moss  and  rank  weeds  had  thickly  grown ; 

And  the  beech  tree,  scathed  by  the  lightning's  blight, 

Spread  its  naked  arms  in  the  mocking  light. 


132  FOKEST   FLOWERS. 

In  the  meadow  bubbles  the  little  spring, 
Where  the  swallow  dips  his  tireless  wing ; 
And  the  small  waves  tinkle  as  they  flow, 
Over  the  silver  sands  below, 
And  the  clean  white  pebbles  gleaming  up, 
Like  flakes  of  snow  in  a  crystal  cup. 

The  meadow  was  white  with  clover  bloom, 
That  filled  the  air  with  its  rich  perfume ; 
And  the  lulling  sound  of  the  wild  bee's  hum 
Upon  my  dreamy  mood  would  come ; 
And  the  drowsy  chanting  soothed  the  train 
Of  thoughts  that  haunted  my  busy  brain. 

It  lured  them  back  to  a  golden  time, 

In  a  far-off  land,  in  a  sunny  clime, 

Whose  clouds  betokened  but  April  weather, 

And  sunlight  and  rain  came  down  together — 

'Twas  a  beautiful  land  to  thee  and  me, 

An  orient  isle  in  a  summer  sea. 

From  the  lake's  clear  mirror  looked  up  and  smiled 
The  dimpled  face  of  a  rosy  child, 


OLDEN   HAUNTS.  133 

With  laughing  eyes,  and  brow  of  snow, 
And  parted  lips,  and  cheeks  aglow — 
But  a  light  breeze  over  the  still  lake  flew, 
And  shivered  the  mirror  of  limpid  blue. 

The  spell  was  broken — my  thoughts  came  back 

"Wearily,  over  a  dusky  track : 

'•'  That  time  will  be  mine  no  more,"  I  cried ; 

And  mournful  echo,  "No  more!"  replied; 

And  the  moaning  sedge,  on  the  lake's  green  shore, 

Seemed  ever  repeating,  "No  more,  no  more!" 


12 


134 


enh. 


I  KNELT  beside  the  bed  of  one 

I  dearly  loved,  and  watched  the  breath 
Flow  through  her  lips,  and  knew  the  sun 

That  next  arose,  would  herald  death. 
I  saw  the  soft  and  placid  eye 

Grow  dim,  death's  dew  the  fair  brow  chill ; 
I  heard  the  quick  and  struggling  sigh — 

And  then  that  gentle  heart  was  still. 

And  when  the  morning's  gladsome  ray, 
Lit  mountain  top,  and  vale,  and  lea, 

I  clasped  a  hand  of  pulseless  clay, 
That  gave  no  answering  clasp  to  me. 


THE  TRULY  DEAD.  135 

Though  years  have  passed  since  that  sad  hour 

When  thy  unsullied  spirit  fled, 
Though  I  have  plucked  the  woodland  flower, 

A  sacred  thing,  from  thy  dark  bed ; 

I  cannot  think  thee  dead,  nor  grieve — 

Sweet  thoughts  of  thee  my  bosom  fill ; 
At  joyous  morn,  or  thoughtful  eve? 

I  feel  that  thou  art  with  me  still; 
I  see  thy  gentle  face  once  more, 

So  full  of  love  and  purity: 
Ah !  though  thy  mortal  life  be  o'er, 

Thou  never  canst  be  dead  to  me. 

But  thou  !  unhappy  one,  ah  !  thou 

Deservedst  a  more  ungentle  doom  ! 
Though  youth  and  health  still  flush  thy  brow, 

Contempt  hath  hollowed  thee  a  tomb : 
I  know  that  from  thy  breast  each  spark 

Of  truth  and  honour's  pride  hath  fled ; 
Thy  place  within  my  heart  is  dark — 

And  thou  art  dead,  ay,  thou  art  dead. 


136 


AY,  hasten  on  thy  mission, 

Herald  of  joy  and  woe ; 
For  sorrowing  hearts  thou  art  too  fleet, 

To  joyous  ones  too  slow — 
Thou  bringest  the  mellow  lovelight 

To  many  a  sparkling  eye ; 
To  many  a  cheerful  bosom, 

Grief's  deep,  convulsive  sigh. 

By  yonder  open  casement 

Sits  a  fair  and  youthful  maid, 

With  hope  and  fear  upon  her  face, 
Mingling  their  light  and  shade — 


THE   POST-MAN.  137 

Now  she  clasps  the  precious  missive, 
The  hand  trembling  all  the  while, 

And  she  scarcely  heeds  thy  merry  jest, 
And  thy  arch  but  kindly  smile. 

Within  the  narrow  doorway 

Of  yon  mansion  old  and  gray  ; 
With  a  face  and  garb  that  harmonize 

With  its  quiet  and  decay, 
Stands  an  aged  woman,  watching 

For  thy  coming — all  too  fleet 
The  tidings  that  thou  bearest 

Her  tearful  eyes  will  greet. 

The  thoughtful  merchant  at  his  desk, 

Skilled  in  trade's  mystic  art ; 
The  poet  with  impassioned  soul, 

And  yearning,  restless  heart ; 
The  artist  gazing  on  his  work, 

With  heart  and  brow  elate — 
Ah !  oftentimes  to  all  thou  comest, 

A  messenger  of  Fate. 


138  FOREST   FLOWERS. 

The  bundle  grasped  within  thy  hand, 

A  magic  thing  appears ; 
For  many  smiles  are  locked  therein, 

And  many  bitter  tears, 
Then  hasten  on  thy  mission, 

Herald  of  joy  and  woe, 
Weaving  the  dark  and  golden  threads 

That  form  Life's  web  below. 


BETHUNE'S  POEMS, 

LINDSAY   &   BLAKISTON   PUBLISH, 

LAYS    OF    LOVE    AND     FAITH, 

WITH    OTHER 

FUGITIVE   POEMS. 

BY   THE 
REV.    G.    W.    BETHUNE,    D.D. 

This  w  an  elegant  Volume,  beautifully  printed  on  the  finest  and 
paper,  and  richly  bound  in  various  styles. 

As  one  arranges  in  a  simple  vase 

A  little  store  of  unpretending  flowera. 

So  gathered  I  some  records  of  past  hours, 
And  trust  them,  gentle  reader,  to  thy  grace, 
Nor  hope  that  in  my  pages  thou  wilt  trace 

The  brilliant  proof  of  high  poetic  powers; 
But  dear  memorials  of  happy  days, 

When  heaven  shed  blessings  on  my  heart  like  showera, 
Clothing  with  beauty  e'en  the  desert  place; 
Till  I,  with  thankful  gladness  in  my  looks, 

Turned  me  to  God,  sweet  nature,  loving  friends, 
Christ's  little  children,  well-worn  ancient  booki, 

The  charm  of  Art,  the  rapture  music  sends ; 
And  sang  away  the  grief  that  on  man's  lot  attends. 


OPINIONS  OF  THE   PRESS. 

We  beg  leave  to  express  our  thanks  to  the  diligent  author  of  those  Poems,  for  this 
additional  and  highly  valuable  contribution  to  the  treasures  of  American  literature. 
The  prose  writings  of  Dr.  Bethune,  by  their  remarkably  pure  and  ehaste  language, 
their  depth  and  clearness  of  thought,  their  force  and  beauty  of  illustration,  and  by  their 
intelligent  and  elevated  piety,  have  justly  secured  to  him  a  place  with  the  very  best 
authors  of  our  land,  whose  works  are  destined  to  exert  a  wide-spread  and  most  salutary 
influence  on  the  forming  character  and  expanding  mind  of  our  growing  republic.  This 
volume  of  his  collected  poetry,  though  it  be,  as  the  author  observes  in  his  beautiful 
introductory  sonnet,  but  the  "gathered  records  of  past  hours,"  or  the  fruit  of  rnonu-nts 
of  industrious  relaxation  from  more  severe  labours,  may  without  fear  take  it?  place  by 
the  side  of  our  best  poetic  productions;  and  there  are  many  pieces  in  it,  which,  fin 
accuracy  of  rhythm,  for  refined  sentiment,  energy  of  thought,  flowing  and  lucid  <;x 
pression,  and  subduing  pathos,  are  unsurpassed  by  any  writer. 

Exteriorly,  arid  in  the  matters  of  paper  and  typography,  this  is  an  elegant  volume, 
and  so  far  is  a  fitting  casket  for  the  gems  it  contains— for  gems  these  beautiful  poenia 
are,  of  "purest  ray  serene" — lustrous  jewels — ornaments  of  purest  virgin  gold. 

Many  hallowed  breathings  will  be  found  among  the  poems  here  collected — all  distin 
guished  by  correct  taste  and  refined  feeling,  rarely  dazzling  by  gorgeous  imagery,  but 
always  charming  by  their  purity  and  truthfulness  to  nature.— JV.  Y.  Commercial. 

The  author  of  this  volume  has  a  gifted  mind,  improved  by  extensive  education;  a 
•.heerful  temper,  chastened  by  religion ;  a  sound  taste,  refined  and  improved  by  extensive 
observation  and  much  reading,  and  the  gift  of  poetry.— Worth  American. 

The  Volume  before  us  contains  much  that  is  truly  beautiful ;  many  gems  that  sparkle 
with  genius  and  feeling.  They  are  imbued  with  the  true  spirit  of  poesy,  and  may  be 
wad  ogain  and  agnip  with  pleasure.— Inquirer. 


LINDSAY  &  BLAKlSTOiN  PUBLISH, 

THE  OF  LIFE, 

A   TRULY   AMERICAN    BOOK,   ENTIRELY    ORIGINAL, 

PRESENTING  A  VIEW  OF  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LIFE, 

FROB'I  INTA^CIT  TO  OLD 


Illustrated  by  a  series  of  Eleven  Engravings,  beautifully 
executed  on  Steel, 

BY  J.  SARTAIN,  PHILADELPHIA, 

INCLUDING 

Infancy,  (Vignette  Title,)  Designed  ..........  by  Schmitz. 

Childhood,  Painted  ........................  «    Eichholtz. 

Boyhood,  (Frontispiece,)  Painted  .............  «    Osgood. 


Maidenhood  ..............................  u  Rothermel. 

The  Bride  ................................  «  Rossiter. 

The  Mother  ..............................  «  Rossiter. 

The  Widow  ..............................  «  Rossiter. 

Manhood,  Designed  ........................  «  Rothermel. 

Old  Age  .................................  «  Rothermel. 

The  Shrouded  Mirror,  Designed  .............  «  Rev.  Dr.  Morton. 

The  literary  contents  comprise  original  articles  in  prose  and  verse,  from 

the  pens  of 

RBV.  G.  W.  BETHUNE,  REY.  CLEMENT  M.  BUTLER,  MRS.  SIGOURNEY,  MRS 

OSGOOD,  MRS.  HALE,  MRS.  ELLET,  J.  T.  HEADLET,  REV.  M.  A.  DM 

WOLFE  HOWE,  Miss  SEDGWICK,  REV.  WM.  B.  SPRAGUE,  REV. 

H.  HASTINGS  WELD,  Miss  CAROLINE  E.  ROBERTS,  BUSHROD 

BARTLETT,  Esa.,  ALICE  G.  LEE,  HOPE  HESSELTINE, 
AND   OTHER   FAVOURITE   AUTHORS   OF   OUR   OWN  COUNTRY. 

EDITED  BY  MRS.  L.  C.  TUTHILL, 

And  richly  bound  in  various  styles. 

OPINIONS   OF  THE   PRESS. 

This  is  an  elegant  volume  ;  with  an  excellent  design,  combining  all  that  is  attractir* 
n  typographical  execution,  with  beautiful  engravings,  it  illustrates  the  progress  of 
human  life  in  a  series  of  mezzotints  of  the  most  finished  style.  These  handsome  pic 
tures  present  boyhood  and  girlhood,  the  lover  and  the  loved,  the  bride  and  the  mother 
the  widow  and  old  age,  with  many  other  scenes  that  will  leave  a  pleasing  and  salutary 
impression.  The  literary  department  is  executed  by  a  variety  of  able  and  entertainin» 
writers,  forming  altogether  a  beautiful  gift-book,  appropriate  to  all  seasons.—  JV.  Y.  of- 
terver 

>  ^rr'n  ^f^,?*™  of  \b.°°.k'  and  a  suPerb  specimen  of  artistical  skill,  as  well  ai 
m  Jr    t       f     ff    ;•  j  brilliant  and  tasteful  ornament  for  the  centre-table,  or  a 

memento  of  affection  and  good  wishes,  to  be  presented  in  the  form  of  a  Birthday 

'5  entilled  to  tlie  consideratio"  and' 


?i?letndea  iStf  h?P-Py-  °ne'  and  the  work  "  every  wa^  worthy  of  its  subject.    Without 

too  costly  it  is  in  every  respect  a  very  handsome  volume  ;  the  sentiments  it  con- 

lams  are  not  only  unobjectionable,  but  salutary  ;  and  we  cannot  conceive  a  cift  of  th« 

"  be  morc  acceptabie  to  the  **•  « 


LINDSAY  &  BLAKISTON 

PUBLISH 

THE   ROSEMARY, 


A   COLLECTION 

OF 


SACKED  AND  RELIGIOUS  POETRY, 

/rnm  tlji  fnglisl;  Mil  5lratritun  |Snrts; 

WITH 

EIGHT  SPLENDID  ILLUSTRATIONS  ON  STEEL  BY  SARTAIN. 


of 

MOSES    SMITING    THE    ROCK       ...........  MTJRILLO. 

HEBRON  .................  BRACEBRIDGE. 

DANIEL    IN    THE    LIONS'    DEN  ...........  ZEIGLER. 

ELIJAH    FED    BY    RAVENS         ...........  CORBOULD. 

ABRAHAM    OFFERING    UP    ISAAC     ..........  WESTALL. 

GOD'S    COVENANT   WITH    NOAH    ..........  ROTHERMEL. 

JOSEPH    SOLD    BY    HIS    BRETHREN       .........  ZUCCHI. 

THE    WOMEN    AT    THE    SEPULCHRE  .........  P.  VIET. 

(Bxtrnrt  from  tjp  ^tofra, 

In  presenting  in  "The  Rosemary"  some  of  the  choice  selections 
of  Sacred  Poetry  in  an  attractive  garb,  it  is  hoped  that  it  will  be 
received  as  an  evidence  of  that  religious  feeling,  which  at  times  has 
actuated  most  of  the  great  poets,  and  been  displayed  in  some  of  their 
finest  productions. 

(Opnums  nf  tip 

This  book  is  a  beautiful  pearl,  rich  in  the  treasures  of  thought  and 
imagination,  which  form  its  contents,  as  well  as  in  the  elegance  of  its  cos 
tume,   and  the  delicate  and  finished   engravings  which  embellish  it.—- 
Christian  Observer. 

In  this  attractive  volume  we  find  much  to  please  the  eye  ;  but  the  most 
valuable  recommendation  of  the  work  is  found  in  the  lessons  of  piety, 
virtue,  morality,  and  mercy,  which  are  thrown  together  in  this  many-co 
loured  garland  of  poetic  flowers.  —  Episcopal  Recorder. 

The  volume  before  us  commends  itself  to  every  one  who  with  a  gift 
would  connect  the  highest  sentiment  of  purity—  for  it  is  a  casket  of  spiritual 
gems—  radiant  with  the  light  of  true  religion.—  Christian  Gem. 

This  collection  is  made  with  great  taste,  and  is,  perhaps,  the  finest  ever 
comprised  within  the  limits  of  one  volume.  —  Godey's  Lady's  Book. 


LINDSAY  &  BLAKISTON  PUBLISH 

•    •    '    WATSON'S       I      : 
DICTIONARY  OF  POETICAL  QUOTATIONS, 

CONSISTING   OP 

ELEGANT  EXTRACTS  ON  EVERY  SUBJECT, 

COMPILED  FROM  VARIOUS  AUTHORS,  AND  ARRANGED  UNDER 
APPROPRIATE  HEADS, 

BY  JOHN  T.  WATSON,  M.  D., 

WITH 

NINE  SPLENDID  ILLUSTRATIONS  ON  STEEL, 

INCLUDING 


The  Noontide  Dream, 

Contemplation, 

Modesty, 

The  Thunder-Storm, 


The  Village  Tomb-Cutter, 

The  Parting  Wreath, 

Bereavement, 

The  Bashful  Lover, 


Love  and  Inndcence. 


OPINIONS  OF  THE  PRESS. 

We  may  safely  recommend  this  hook  as  a  collection  of  some  of  the  most  beautiful  conceptions, 
elegantly  expressed,  to  be  found  in  the  range  of  English  and  American  poetry.— Saturday  Conner. 


We  regard  this  as  the  best  book  of  a  similar  character  yet  published.— Germantown  Telegraph. 

In  this  Dictionary  of  Quotations  every  subject  is  touched  upon;  and,  while  the  selection  has  been 
carefully  made,  it,  has  the  merit  of  containing  the  best  thoughts  of  the  Poets  of  our  own  day,  which 
no  other  collection  has.—  U.  S.  Gazette. 

The  selections  in  this  book  are  made  with  taste  from  all  poets  of  note,  and  are  classed  under  a 
great  variety  of  subjects. — Presbyterian. 

The  Quotations  appear  to  have  been  selected  with  great  judgment  and  taste,  by  one  well  acquainted 
with  whatever  is  most  elegant  and  beautiful  in  the  whole  range  of  literature.—  Christian  Observer. 

A  volume  exhibiting  industry  and  taste  on  the  part  of  the  compiler,  which  will  often  facilitate  re 
searches  in  the  mines  of  gold  whence  it  was  dug. — Maysville  Eagle. 

In  his  arrane-pment,  the  compiler  hns  assigned  the  immortal  Shakspeare  his  deserved  pre-eminence, 
and  illumined  his  pages  with  the  choicest  beauties  of  the  British  Poets.— Herald. 

We  do  not  hesitate  to  commend  it  to  our  poetry-loving  readers,  as  a  book  worth  buying,  and  worth 
reading.— Clinton  Republican. 

'Hie  extracts  display  great  care  and  taste  on  the  part  of  the  editor,  are  arranged  in  chronological 
order,  and  embrace  passages  from  all  the  poets,  from  the  earliest  period  of  our  literature  to  the  pre 
sent  time.— State  Gazette. 

This  book  will  be  read  with  interest,  as  containing  the  best  thoughts  of  the  best  poets,  and  is  con 
venient  for  reference,  because  furnishing  appropriate  quotations  to  illustrate  avast  variety  of  subjects. 
— Old  Colony  Memorial. 

We  view  it  as  a  casket  filled  with  the  most  precious  srems  of  learning  and  fancy,  and  so  arranged 
as  to  fascinate,  at  a  elam  e,  the  delicate  eye  of  taste.  By  referring  to  the  index,  which  is  arranged  in 
alphabetical  order,  you  can  find,  in  a  moment,  the  best  ideas  of  the  most  inspired  poets  of  this  country, 
as  well  as  Europe,  upon  any  desired  subject.— Chronicle. 


LINDSAY  &    BLAKISTON 

PUBLISH  THE 

AMERICAN  FEMALE  POETS: 

WITH 

BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES, 

BY 
CAROLINE    MAY. 

AN  ELEGANT  VOLUME,   WITH  A   HANDSOME   VIGNETTE   TITLE, 

AND 

PORTRAIT  OF   MRS.   OSGOOD, 

The  Literary  contents  of  this  work  contain  copious  selections  from 

the  writings  of 

Anne  Bradstreet,  Jane  Turcll,  Anno  Eliza  Bleecker,  Margarcttn 

V.  Faugeres,  Phillis  Wheatley,  Mercy  "Warren,  Sarah.  Porter) 

Sarah    Went  worth    Morton,    Mrs.    Ldttle,    Maria    A.    Brooks, 

Lytlia  Huntley  Sigourney,  Anna  Maria  Wells,  Caroline  Gril» 

man,  Sarah  Josepha  Hale,  Maria  James,  Jessie  G»  M'Cartee, 

Mrs,  Gray,   Eliza  Follcn,   Liouisa  Jane    Hall,  Mrs.  Swift, 

Mrs.  E.  C.  Kiniiey,  Marguerite  St.  Lieon  Loud,  IJitella  J. 

Case,  Elizaheth  Bogart,  A.  D.  Woodbridge,  Elizabeth 

Margaret  Chandler,  Emma  C.  Embury,  Sarah  Helena     , 

"Whitman,  Cynthia  Taggart?  Elizabeth  J.  Eamcs, 

<fcc.  ifcc,  &c. 

Tho  whole  forming  a  beautiful  specimen  of  the  highly  cultivated  state  oi 

the  arts  in  the  United  States,  as  regards  the  paper,  topography, 

and  binding  in  rich  and  various  styles. 

EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  PREFACE. 

One  of  the  most  striking  characteristics  of  the  present  age 
is  the  number  of  female  writers,  especially  in  the  department 
of  belles-lettres.  This  is  even  more  true  of  the  United 
States,  than  of  the  old  world ;  and  poetry,  which  is  the  lan 
guage  of  the  affections,  has  been  freely  employed  among  us 
to  express  the  emotions  of  woman's  heart. 

As  the  rare  exotic,  costly  because  of  the  distance  from 
which  it  is  brought,  will  often  suffer  in  comparison  of  beauty 
and  fragrance  with  the  abundant  wild  flowers  of  our  mea 
dows  and  woodland  slopes,  so  the  reader  of  our  present 
volume,  if  ruled  by  an  honest  taste,  will  discover  in  the  effu 
sions  of  our  gifted  countrywomen  as  much  grace  of  form, 
and  powerful  sweetness  of  thought  and  feeling,  as  in  the 
blossoms  of  woman's  genius  culled  from  other  lands. 


LINDSAY  &   BLAKISTON 

HAVE  JUST  PUBLISHED 

THE  WOMEN  OF  THE  SCRIPTURES, 

EDITED    BY    THE 

REV.   H.   HASTINGS  WELD; 

WITH 

ORIGINAL  LITERARY  CONTRIBUTIONS, 

BY 

DISTINGUISHED  AMERICAN  WRITERS: 

BEAUTIFULLY  ILLUSTRATED  BY 

TWELVE  SUPEKB   ENGRAVINGS  ON  STEEL, 
BY  J,  SARTAIN,  PHILADELPHIA, 

FROM   ORIGINAL  DESIGNS,  EXPRESSLY  FOR  THE  WORK, 

BY  T,   P,    ROSSITER,   NEW   YORK! 

INCLUDING 


Miriam, 
Eve, 
Sarah, 
Rachel, 


Hannah, 

Ruth, 

Queen  of  Sheba, 

Shunamite, 


Esther, 

The  Syrophenician 

Martha, 

The  Marys. 


Elegantly  Bound  in  White  Calf,  Turkey  Morocco,  and  Cloth 
Extra,  with  Gilt  Edges. 


PREFACE. 

THE  subject  of  this  book  entitles  it  to  a  high  place  among  illustrated 
volumes.  The  execution,  literary  and  artistic,  will,  we  are  confident,  be 
found  worthy  of  the  theme  ;  since  we  have  received  the  assistance  ot 
authors  best  known  in  the  sacred  literature  of  our  country,  in  presenting, 
in  their  various  important  attitudes  and  relations,  the  WOMEN  OF  TH* 
SCRIPTURES.  The  contents  of  the  volume  were  prepared  expressly  for  it, 
with  the  exception  of  the  pages  from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Balfour ;  and  for  the 
republication  of  her  articles,  no  one  who  reads  them  will  require  an  apology. 
The  designs  for  the  engravings  are  original;  and  the  Publishers  trust  that 
in  the  present  volume  they  have  made  their  best  acknowledgment  for  the 
favour  with  which  its  predecessors  have  been  received.  The  whole,  they 
believe,  will  be  found  no  inapt  memento  of  those  to  whom  St.  Peter  refera 
the  sex  for  an  ensample  :  "  the  holy  women,  in  the  old  time." 


LINDSAY  &  BLAKISTON 

P  U  B  L  I  S  H 

THE   LIFE,    LETTERS    AND    POEMS 

OF 

BERNARD  BARTON. 

EDITED   BY   PUS  DAUGHTER. 
With  a  Portrait. 

Extract  from  the  Preface. 

In  compiling  the  present  volume,  it  has  been  the  wish  of  the  editor,  in 
some  measure,  to  carry  out  her  father's  favourite  but  unfulfilled  design 
of  an  autobiography.  It  is  with  reference  to  this  that  both  the  letters 
and  poems  have  been  selected.  The  great  bulk  of  the  poems  are  reli 
gious  ;  but  there  are  not  wanting  those  of  a  lighter  character,  which  will 
be  found  to  be  the  wholesome  relaxation  of  a  pure,  good,  and  essentially 
religious  mind.  These  may  succeed  each  other  as  gracefully  and  bene 
ficently  as  April  sunshine  and  showers  over  the  meadow.  So,  indeed, 
such  moods  followed  in  his  own  mind,  and  were  so  revealed  in  his  do 
mestic  intercourse. 


OPINIONS    OF   THE    PRESS. 

This  is  a  very  handsome  volume,  enriched  with  a  neat  and  graphic  portrait 
of  the  worthy  quaker  lyrist,  and  forms  a  valuable  addition  to  our  poetical 
literature.  In  the  interesting  Memoir  and  rich  collection  of  Epistolary  Re 
mains,  the  fair  editress  has  conferred  a  most  acceptable  favour  upon  the  many 
admirers  of  her  gifted  parent.  Among  the  correspondence  are  letters  from 
Southey,  Charles  Lamb,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  other  distinguished  cotempo- 
ries. — Evening  Bulletin.  

The  poems  of  this  meritorious  writer,  better  known  by  the  name  of  the 
Quaker  Poet,  have  long  been  popular  in  England,  and  are  much  admired 
in  this  country  for  their  simplicity  and  warmth  of  feeling.— American  and 
Commercial  Advertiser,  Baltimore. 

Barton  was  a  Quaker,  but  mingled  a  good  deal  with  the  "world's  people," 
at  least  with  such  as  were,  like  himself,  addicted  to  literary  pursuits.  His 
correspondence  with  Southey  and  Charles  Lamb,  is  full  of  interest.  Many 
of  his  poems  are  very  beautiful ;  and  the  present  volume  is  worth  a  place  in 
every  good  library.— Evening  Transcript. 


LINDSAY  &    BLAKISTON 

PUBLISH   THE 

BRITISH    FEMALE    POETS: 

WITH 

BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES, 

BY 

GEO.    W.    BETHUNE. 

AN    ELEGANT  VOLUME,   WITH    A   HANDSOME    VIGNETTE    TITLE, 

AND 

PORTRAIT  OF  THE  HON.  MRS,  NORTON. 

The  Literary  contents  of  this  work  contain  copious  selections  from 

the  writings  of 

Anne  Boleyn,  Countess  of  Arundel,  Q,ueen  Elizabeth,  Duchess  of 

Newcastle,  Elizabeth  Carter?  Mrs.  Tighe,   Miss  Hannah   More, 

Mrs*  Hcmaiis.  Lady  Flora  Hastings,   Mrs*  Amelia   Opie,    Miss 

Eliza  Cook,  Mrs.  Soutliey,  Miss  Lowe,  Mrs.  Norton,  Elizabeth. 

B.  Barrett,  Catharine  Parr,  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  Countess 

of  Pembroke,  Lady  Mary  \Vortley  Montague,  Mrs*  Gre- 

ville,  Mrs.  Barbauld,  Joanna  Baillie,  Lctitia  Elizabeth 

I*andon,  Charlotte  Elizabeth,   Mary  Russell   Mitford, 

Mrs.  Coleridge,  Mary  Howitt,  Frances  Kemble  Butler, 

&C.    &C*    &C. 

The  whole  forming  a  beautiful  specimen  of  the  highly  cultivated  state  of 

the  arts  in  the  United  States,  as  regards  the  paper,  typography, 

and  binding  in  rich  and  various  styles. 

OPINIONS    OF   THE    PRESS. 

In  the  department  of  English  poetry,  we  have  long  looked  for  a  spirit  cast  in  nature's  finest,  yet 
most  elevated  mould,  possessed  of  the  most  delicate  and  exquisite  taste,  the  keenest  perception 
of  the  innate  true  and  beautiful  in  poetry,  as  opposed  to  their  opposites,  who  could  give  to  us  a 
pure  collection  of  the  British  Female  Poets;  many  of  them  among  the  choicest  spirits  that  ever 
graced  and  adorned  humanity.  The  object  of  our  search,  in  this  distinct  and  important  mission, 
is  before  us;  and  we  acknowledge  at  once  in  Dr.  Bethune.  the  gifted  poet,  the  eloquent  divine, 
and  the  humble  Christian,  one  who  combines,  in  an  eminent  degree,  all  the  characteristics  above 
alluded  to.  It  raises  the  mind  loftier,  and  makes  it  purified  with  the  soul,  to  float  in  an  atmosphere 
of  spiritual  purity,  to  peruse  the  elegant  volume  before  us,  chaste,  rich,  and  beautiful,  without  and 
within.— Ttie  Spectator. 

We  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  any  previous  attempt  to  form  a  poetical  bouquet  exclusively 
from  gardens  planted  by  female  hands,  and  made  fragrant  and  beautiful  by  woman's  eentle  culture. 
We  know  few  men  equally  qualitied  with  the  gifted  Editor  of  this  volume  for  the  tasteful  and 
judicious  selection  and  adjustment  of  the  various  (lowers  that  are  to  delight  with  their  sweetness, 
soothe  with  their  softness,  and  impart  profit  with  their  sentiment.  The  volume  is  enriched  with 
Biographical  Sketches  of  some  sixty  poetesses,  each  sketch  being  followed  with  specimens  charac 
teristic  of  her  style  and  powers  of  verse.  In  beauty  of  typography,  and  general  yetting  up,  tliii 
Tolume  is  quite  equal  to  the  best  issues  of  its  tasteful  and  enterprising  publishers. — Episcopal  Recorder. 

It  is  handsomely  embellished,  and  may  be  described  as  a  casket  of  gems.  Dr.  Bethune,  who  it 
himself  a  poet  of  no  mean  genius,  has  in  this  volume  exhibited  the  most  refined  taste.  The  work 
may  be  regarded  as  a  treasury  of  nearly  all  the  best  pieces  of  British  Female  Poets.— Inquirer. 

This  volume,  which  is  far  more  suited  for  a  holyday  gift  than  many  which  are  prepared  expressly 
for  the  purpose,  contains  extracts  from  all  the  most  distinguished  English  Female  Poets,  selected 
with  the  taste  and  judgment  which  we  have  a  right  to  expect  from  the  eminent  divine  and  highly 
gifted  poet  whose  name  auorus  the  title  page.  It  is  a  rare  collection  of  the  richest  gems.—  Balti 
more  American. 

Dr.  Bethune  has  selected  his  materials  witli  exquisite  taste,  culling  the  fairest  and  sweetost 
flowers  from  the  extensive  field  cultivated  by  the  British  Female  Poets.  The  brief  Biographical 
Notices  add  much  interest  to  the  volume,  and  vastly  increase  its  value.  It  is  pleasant  to  find  hard 
working  and  close-thinking  divines  thus  recreating  themselves,  and  contributing  by  their  recrea 
tions  to  the  refinement  of  the  age.  Dr.  Bethune  has  brought  to  his  task  poetic  enthusiasm,  and  • 
eady  perceution  of  the  pure  and  beautiful.— N.  Y.  Commercial 


LINDSAY  &  BLAKISTON'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


BOOK  FOR  EVERY  CHRISTIAN, 

THE   SECOND  EDITION. 


MEMOIR  OF  MISS  MARGARET  MERCER, 

BY  CASPAR  MORRIS,  M.  D. 

A  neat  18mo.  volume,  with  a  beautiful  Engraved 
PORTRAIT  OF  MISS  MERCER, 

OPINIONS  OF  THE  PRESS. 

Miss  Mercer  was  a  daughter  of  the  late  Governor  Mercer,  of  Maryland.  Her  father. 
Who  was  a  Virginian,  and  the  descendant  of  a  distinguished  family,  removed  to  Straw 
berry  Hill,  near  Annapolis,  Md.,  soon  after  his  marriage.  In  the  memoir  of  the  daughter, 
tve  have  the  moral  portraiture  of  a  character  of  great  moral  worth.  Miss  Mercer  was 
a  Christian,  who  earnestly  sought  to  promote  the  glory  of  the  Saviour,  in  persevering 
efforts  to  be  useful  in  every  position,  and  especially  as  a  teacher  of  the  young.  Her 
energy  of  mind  and  elevated  principles,  united  with  humility  and  gentleness,  and  devoted 
piety,  illustrated  in  her  useful  life,  rendered  her  example  worthy  of  a  lasting  memorial. 
The  work  is  accompanied  by  numerous  extracts  from  her  correspondence.  —  Christian 
Observer.  _ 

The  perusal  of  this  Memoir  will  do  good  ;  it  shows  how  much  can  be  accomplished  by 
superior  talents,  under  the  control  of  a  heart  imbued  with  love  to  the  Saviour.  The 
contemplation  of  the  character  of  Miss  Mercer  may  lead  others  to  put  forth  similar 
efforts,  and  reap  a  like  reward.  —  Christian  Chronicle. 

It  is  impossible  to  read  this  Memoir  without  the  conviction  that  Miss  Mercer  was  a 
very  superior  woman,  both  in  her  attainments  and  her  entire  self-consecration.  In 
laying  down  the  book,  we  feel  alike  admiration  for  the  biographer  and  the  subject  of  the 
Memoir.—  Presbyterian. 

WATSON'S  NEW  DICTIONARY  OF  POETICAL  QUOTATIONS. 

A  neat  12mo.  Volume  in  plain  and  extra  bindings. 

A  NEW  DICTIONARY  OF  POETICAL  QUOTATIONS, 

CONS  [STING  OF  ELEGANT  EXTRACTS  ON  EVERY  SUBJECT, 

Compiled  from  various  Authors,  and  arranged  under  appropriate  heads, 

BY  JOHN1  T.  W-ATSOJNT,  3VE.D. 

OPINIONS   OF   THE   PRESS. 

We  may  safely  recommend  this  book  as  a  collection  of  some  of  the  most  beautiful 
conceptions,  elegantly  expressed,  to  be  found  in  the  range  of  English  and  American 
poetry.—  Saturday  Courier. 

™  ^  ****  b°°k  °f  a  similar  cnarac'er  yet  published.—  Oermaatoum 


In  this  Dictionary  of  Quotations  every  subject  is  touched  upon  ;  and,  while  the  snlcc- 
tion  has  been  carefully  made,  it  has  the  merit  of  containing  the  best  thoughts  of  the 
i>oets  of  our  own  da  which  no  t  — 


,  s      e  mer     o    contanng  the  b 

i>oets  of  our  own  day,  which  no  other  collection  has.—  U.  S.  Gazette. 

The  selections  in  this  book  are  made  with  taste  from  all  poets  of  note  and  are  clasiod 
under  a  great  variety  of  subjects.—  Presbyterian. 

The  Quotations  appear  to  have  been  selected  with  great  judgment  and  taste,  bv  ona 
well  acquainted  with  whatever  is  most  elegant  and  beautiful'  in  the  whole  ran-e  ot 
literature.—  Christian  Obtervtr 


LINDSAY  &  BLAKISTON 

HAVE  RECENTLY  PUBLISHED, 

SCENES  EN  THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SAVEOUR, 

EY   THE 

POETS  AND   PAINTERS: 

CONTAINING 

A  N  Y    GEMS     OF     ART     A  N  D     G  B  IT  I  U  S, 

ILLUSTRATIVE     OF 

THE  SAVIOUR'S  LIFE  AND  PASSION, 

EDITED    BY    THE 

REV.   RUFUS   GRISWOLD. 

THE   ILLUSTRATIONS,  WHICH  ARE  EXQUISITELY  ENGRAVED  ON  STEEL, 
BY  JOHN  SARTAIN,  ARE  : 


The  Holy  Family,  painted  by  N.  Poussin  ; 
The  Snvwur,  bv  Paul  Deluroche  ; 
Christ  by  the  Well  of  Sychar,  by  Emelio  Signol ; 
The  Daughter  of  Janus,  by  Delonue  ; 


Walking  on  the  Sea,  by  Henry  Richter ; 
The  Ten  Lepers,  by  A.  Vandyke  ; 
The  Last  Supper,  b 


by  Benjamin  West; 
e  Sepulchre,  by  Philip 


The  Women  at  the  Sepulchre,  by  Philip  Viet. 


THE  LITERARY  CONTENTS,   COMPRISING  SIXTY-FOUR  POEMS,   ARE  BY 

>n,  He  main,  Montgomery*  Keljle,  Mrs.  Sigourney,  Miss  L.n.n« 
don,  Dale,  Willis,  Bulftiich,  Bethune,  Longfellow,  Whittier. 
Croly,  Klopstoclc,  Mrs.  Osgood,  Pierpont,  Crosswcll,  and 
other  celebrated  Poets  of  this  and  other  Countries* 

The  volume  is  richly  and  beautifully  bound  in  Turkey  Morocco,  gilt,  white 
calf  extra,  or  embossed  cloth,  gilt  edges,  sides  and  back. 


We  commend  this  volume  to  the  attention  of  those  who  would  place  a 
Souvenir  in  the  hands  of  their  friends,  to  invite  them  in  the  purest  strains  of 
poetry,  and  by  the  eloquence  of  art,  to  study  the  Life  of  the  Saviour. — Christ.  Obi 


The  contents  are  so  arranged  as  to  constitute  a  Poetical  and  Pictorial  Life 
ol  iho  Saviour,  and  we  can  think  of  no  more  appropriate  gift-book.  In  typo 
graphy,  embellishments,  and  binding,  we  have  recently  seen  nothing  more 
tasteful  and  rich. — North  American. 


We  like  this  book,  as  well  for  its  beauty  as  for  its  elevated  character,  (t 
is  jus!  such  an  one  as  is  suited,  either  for  a  library,  or  a  parlour  centre-table  ; 
and  no  one  can  arise  from  its  perusal  without  feeling  strongly  the  sublimity 
ind  enduring  character  of  the  Christian  religion. — Harrisburg  Telegraph. 


This  is  truly  a  splendid  volume  in  all  its  externals,  while  its  contents  are 
richly  worthy  of  the  magnificent  style  in  which  they  are  presented.  As  illus 
trations  of  the  Life  and  Passion  of  the  Saviour  of  mankind,  it  will  form  an 
appropriate  Souvenir  for  the  season  in  which  we  commemorate  his  cominp 
ipon  earth. — Neal's  Gazette. 


a  Smith   (Ri 
rers " 


key) 


R6428 


M189018 


for 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


